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SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 


Richard    G.  Badger,    Publisher,    Boston 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


VOLUME    XV  WINTER  NUMBER    IV 

SAINT  JOHN'S   FIRE 

By  Hermann  Sudermann 

i  1 1 

Translated  from  the  German  by  Charlotte  Porter  and  H.  C.  Porter* 

Characters. 

Vogelreuter,  a  landholder. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  his  wife. 

Trude,  their  daughter. 

George  von  Hartwig,  a  civil  engineer,  Vogelreuter's  nephew. 

Marikke,  foster-daughter  in  Vogelreuter's  house. 

A  Lithuanian  vagrant  called  "  The  Old  Hag." 

Haffke,  the  Assistant  Pastor. 

Plotz,  the  farm  superintendent. 

The  Housekeeper. 

A  Maid-servant. 

Time:     Late  in  the  eighties. 

Place:     Vogelreuter's  farm  in  Lithuanian  Prussia. 


A 


ACT  I. 

GARDEN-ROOM  in  the  manor-house.  The  rear  wall  is 
formed  by  three  glass  doors  separated  by  narrow  wall 
columns.  Outside  the  glass  doors  is  a  terrace,  with  a  canopy 
over  it,  whence  steps  lead  to  the  garden.  Doors  right  and 
left.  In  the  middle  a  long  dining  table  laid  for  breakfast. 
Left,  down  stage,  a  sofa,  table,  and  chair.     Right,  a  sewing- 

(0 

*  Copyright,  1904,  by  Charlotte  Porter.    Stage  rights  reserved. 
Copyright,  1904,  by  The  Poet  Lore  Company.    All  rights  reserved. 


PT^G^b 


3  7^3 

SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 


machine  and  a  basket  of  laundered  clothes  ready  to  be  mended.  Old- 
fashioned  engravings  and  family  portraits  on  the  walls.  Comfortable 
middle-class  furnishings.      Morning. 

Scene  I. 

Trude,  busied  at  the  breakfast  table.  VOGELREUTER,  with  Plotz, 
entering  from  the  right. 

Vogelreuter.  Curse  it!  The  devil's  abroad  today.  [Throws  down 
his  cap.]      'Morning,  Trude! 

Trude.      [brightly]  'Morning,  Daddy! 

Vogelreuter.  Good-for-nothing  crew !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself,  Plotz.  If  it  had  happened  in  the  meadow,  earlier,  but  now, 
in  the  stalls !     Phew !  the  devil ! 

Trude.     What's  happened,  Daddy? 

Vogelreuter.  Cow's  over-eaten!  Easy  to  see  Marikke  isn't  here. 
When  she  goes  to  the  milking  in  the  morning  such  things  don't  happen. 
Now,  then!     What  can  you  trump  up,  man,  as  an  excuse? 

Plotz.     Nothing,  Mr.  Vogelreuter. 

Vogelreuter.  Well !  That's  sensible,  at  least.  Here !  Have  a 
cigar!  And  see  you  hustle  out  for  a  veterinary  surgeon.  But  you'll  have 
coffee  first? 

Plotz.     I  have  had  mine,  Mr.  Vogelreuter. 

Vogelreuter.     Well,  then,  why  are  you  loitering  here  ? 

Plotz.     I  beg  to  take  my  leave,  Mr.  Vogelreuter. 

Vogelreuter.  Now,  there,  you  have  developed  a  brilliant  elo- 
quence. .  .  .you  blockhead!.  .  .      'Morning! 

Plotz.      [delaying']  Good  morning  [still  waiting]. 

Vogelreuter.     Now!  what  else? 

Plotz.     Well,  Mr.  Vogelreuter,  I  have  still  one  little  matter  to 

Vogelreuter.     Out  with  it ! 

Plotz.      [with  a  glance  at  Trude]  But 

Vogelreuter.  H'm !  You  there,  [to  Trude]  go  see  what  the 
weather's  like. 

Trude.     Yes,  Daddy !  [goes  out  on  the  terrace.] 

Vogelreuter.     Well? 

Plotz.      [softly]  The  Old  Hag  has  been  seen  around  here  again. 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  3 

Vogelreuter.  Heigh !...  .Nuh!  Pretty  business  this  is...  Tut  I 
tut!     And  what  was  she  doing? 

Plotz.  Begging  in  the  village.  Then  she  was  roaming  around  the 
farm  sheds,  yonder. 

Vogelreuter.  Hump!  [scratches  his  head']  Oh,  yes,  yes!  If  I  had 
only  let  the  thieving  toad  be  jailed  she  would  have  been  out  of  the  way  for 
a  few  years  at  least.  Now  here  she  is  again !  Well !  What  does  she  want 
this  time?  » 

Plotz.     She's  heard,  she  says,  that  her  daughter's  going  to  be  married. 

Vogelreuter.  Her  daughter?  Oh,  ho,  indeed!...  [laughs']  Well, 
and?.  .  .  . 

Plotz.  And  so  now,  she  wants  to  get  at  a  bit  of  the  wedding  cake, 
she  says ....      But  she  doesn't  dare  come  to  the  house. 

Vogelreuter.  That's  something  to  be  thankful  for !  Now  look  to  it, 
Plotz,  that  she  doesn't  come  across  any  one  belonging  to  the  house!  Not 
one  !  Do  you  understand?  I  will  speak  to  the  police.  Perhaps  we 
may  get  rid  of  her  for  good  this  time.     Well,  'morning! 

Plotz.     'Morning,  Mr.  Vogelreuter  [goes  out]. 

Trude.      [re-entering]  Shall  I  pour  the  coffee,  daddy? 

Vogelreuter.  Uh!  So  you  attend  to  the  coffee,  today,  Curly-locks? 
Can  you  do  that? 

Trude.     Oh,  papa,  as  if  I  could  not  do      that! 

Vogelreuter.     Now !     Now  !      Marikke  usually  attends  to  it. 

Trude.  But  I  can  do  it,  too.  Yes,  just  as  well  as  she.  You  must 
have  patience,  though. 

Vogelreuter.  You  little  fraud,  you !  How  many  more  days  am  I  to 
have  you  with  me? 

Trude.     Four,  daddy. 

Vogelreuter.  You  puss!  So  you  must  get  married  now?  Must 
you  ?     Eh  ? 

Trude.     But,  papa,  you  yourself  settled  that. 

Vogelreuter.  Of  course.  But  what's  a  poor  old  man  like  me  to  do? 
Has  the  loved  one  not  put  in  his  appearance  yet? 

Trude  shakes  her  head. 

Vogelreuter.     Such  a  set !     Forever  sleeping,  sleeping,  sleeping ! 

Trude.     He  worked  late  yesterday,  papa.     When  it  was  nearly  mom- 


4  SAINT  JOHNS   FIRE 

ing,  past  two  o'clock,  there  was  a  light  still  burning  in  his  room. 

Vogclreutcr.  Industrious,  is  he?  If  he  only  wasn't  such  a  self-willed 
fellowl.  .  .  .  Mamma's  not  down  yet  either? 

Trade.     No. 

Vogelrculcr.      And  Marikke?     Has  she  come  home  yet? 
Trudc.     Oh,  yes,  by  the  early  train. 

Vogelrculcr.  Now  isn't  her  turtle-dove's  nest  for  our  loving  pair 
most  ready?  eh? 

Trude.  She  has  to  go  to  Konigsberg  once  more,  I  believe.  Then  it 
will  be  ready. 

Vogelrculcr.     And  it's  going  to  be  fine,  isn't  it,  eh? 

Trudc.  I  don't  know,  daddy.  She  does  not  tell  m  e  one  word 
about  it.  It  is  all  to  be  a  surprise.  But  certainly  it  is  going  to  be  wonder- 
fully, wonderfully  fine ! 

Vogclreuler.     And  you  are  happy,  Curly-locks,  eh? 

Trude.  Oh,  papa,  really!  Indeed  I  do  not  deserve  so  much  happi- 
ness. 

Vogelreuter.  Really,  upon  my  word,  you  don't  deserve  it,  if  you 
bring  such  hard  eggs  as  these  to  the  table  to  your  poor  old  father. 

Trude.      [dismayed]  Oh,  excuse  me!      I  will  at  once  — 

Vogelreuter.  Never  mind!  Never  mind!  Marikke  is  having  her 
sleep  out,  eh? 

Trude.  If  she  only  would!  Ah!  daddy,  do  scold  her.  Nobody  can 
endure  it  to  work  the  way  Marikke  does  now.  She  is  here  looking  out  for 
the  housekeeping  one  day,  and  the  next  she  is  in  town,  and  at  night  she  is 
sitting  up  for  hours  in  the  railway  train.     If  she  only  does  not  break  down. 

Vogelreuter.  Now!  Don't  you  bother.  I'll —  [Mrs.  Vogel- 
reuter enters  from  the  left.'] 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Good  morning ! 

Vogelreuter.     Morning,  Olsche ! 

Trude.  [throwing  her  arms  around  her  neck]  Good  morning, 
mamma ! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  [kissing  her]  My  sweet  one!...  Oh,  dear! 
Oh,  dear  1  We  shall  say  '  Good  morning '  to  each  other  only  four  times 
more,  and  then  it  will  all  be  over. 

Trude.     You  will  be  coming  for  a  visit  soon,  mamma  ! 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  5 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Ah!     What  is  a  visit!  [weeps.] 

Vogelreuter.  Now,  my  dear!  Don't  get  excited.  Tears  on  an 
empty  stomach —     Br-r!     That's  poison. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Who  did  up  your  hair  last  night,  darling? 

Trude.     The  housekeeper. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  Marikke  was  not  here. 
Speaking  of  her,  you  know,  I  opened  her  door  a  while  ago  to  see  if  she  were 
asleep.  There  she  sat,  still  dressed,  just  as  she  came  from  the  railway 
station,  with  a  book  in  her  lap,  staring,  wide-eyed,  into  the  sky. 

Vogelreuter.  Well!  Well!  I  thought  that  craze  of  hers  for  read- 
ing had  passed  long  ago. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  You  know,  I  keep  thinking  that  we  ought  to  watch 
over  her  more  carefully. 

Vogelreuter.  She  needs  no  one  to  watch  her.  She  has  backbone. 
But,  indeed  we  must  spare  her  more. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  But  Henry!  Not  now?  Four  days  before  the 
wedding!     Who  can  think  of  sparing  any  one  now? 

Vogelreuter.     Huh !      Do  you  know.  .  .  . hmm ! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  I  love  the  child  dearly,  Henry,  you  know  that. 
Dear  me !     Still,  she  is  not  like  our  own  sweet  one. 

Trude.     She  is  far  better  than  I  am,  mamma. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Now  hear  her  modesty!  But  nobody  believes 
that. 

Trude.  Just  think,  mamma!  What  if  she  were  the  one  to  be 
married  and  I  were  the  one  to  stay  at  home ! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Then  we  would  be  keeping  with  us  our  Sunshine 
and  our  Comfort  and  our —  [studying  the  coffee  urn]  Oh!  Oh!  I 
can't  express  it  at  all.     But  there's  something  strange  the  matter  today.  .  . 

Trude.     Why,  mamma ! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Dear!  Dear!  Everything  is  so  —  so  —  so.  .  . 
[showing  how  upside-down  things  are]  If  Marikke  is  not  sleeping,  surely 
then  she  might  come  down-stairs. 

Trude.  [caresses  her,  laughing]  You  see,  mamma !  You  can't  even 
live  through  breakfast  without  her. 

[George  von  Hartwig  enters.] 

Vogelreuter.     Well!     You  sleepy-head !     Are  you  up,  at  last? 


6  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

George.  [patting  him  on  the  hand]  Oh,  now!  dear  uncle,  go  easy. 
Don't  begin  to  scold  right  off. 

Vogelreutcr.      Can't  you  begin  to  call  me  '  father'  now,  my  boy? 

George.  As  soon  as  the  wedding  is  over.  'Morning,  auntie !  [kisses 
her  hand]  Well,  now,  little  onel  [kisses  Trudl.] 

Trade,  [nestling  against  him]  George!  [laughing  suddenly]  Why, 
just  look  at  him,  his  hair  is  all  full  of  hayseed! 

George.     Well,  then,  brush  it  off  nicely,  little  one. 

Vogelreutcr.     So  you  sleep  out  in  the  haymow  now  from  choice? 

George.  Sleep!  Heavens!  Who  can  sleep  on  such  nights  as  these? 
I  have  been  ranging  about  over  the  meadows  since  God  knows  when.  Such 
St.  John's  days !  They  are  enough  to  drive  one  mad.  There  are  no  nights ! 
It's  never  dark  any  more.  Yesterday  evening  I  sat  by  my  window  till  late 
thinking.  Eigh!  The  cursed  nightingales  give  you  no  rest;  you  can't  get 
to  sleep.  All  at  once  the  yellow  thrush  starts  in.  Before  you  know  it,  it's 
morning.  To  the  left  stands  the  sunset-glow,  to  the  right  the  flush  of 
dawn  —  both,  there  quite  peacefully,  side  by  side.  '  Out  of  glow  and  glow 
springs  the  new  day !'....  Ah,  how  beautiful  it  is ! ...  .  Give  me  some 
coffee ! 

Vogelreutcr.  But  see  here !  Do  you  actually  mean  to  stay  with  us 
until  the  wedding? 

George.     Why,  of  course. 

Vogelreutcr.     But  will  that  do?     Whoever  heard  of  such  a  thing? 

Trude.      [pleading]  Now,  papa  ! 

George.  It's  all  one  to  me.  You  can  turn  me  out  of  doors,  to  be 
sure.     In  that  case  I  might  put  up  at  the  tavern  in  Prachtel. 

Vogelreutcr.     Yes,  and  bring  the  fleas  with  you  in  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Oh  !  Henry,  shame ! 

Vogelrcuter.     It's  true. 

George.  Allow  me!  On  the  20th  the  wedding  takes  place.  I  ap- 
plied to  the  magistrate  for  leave  of  absence  from  the  19th.  It  is  my  first 
vacation  in  my  new  position,  so  I  can't  waste  it  going  about  here  and  there. 
But  the  wedding!     Here's  to  it!     Let's  have  it  now! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     But  George !     The  trousseau  won't  be  ready. 

George.  Besides,  where  could  I  go?  I  have  no  home  now.  Marikke 
is  getting  that  ready  for  me.     By  the  way,  has  she  come  home? 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  7 

Trude  nods. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Now,  what's  the  matter?  You  pull  such  a  long 
face,  all  at  once.     Have  you  been  quarreling  with  Marikke? 

George.  Why,  no,  what  an  idea!  But  I  cannot  bear  to  have  that 
girl  work  so  for  me.  If  it  would  spare  her  in  the  least  I  should  prefer  to 
stay  in  Konigsberg. 

Trude.     Oh,  you !     She  isn't  doing  all  this  for  your  sake,  but  mine. 

George.     Don't  be  so  vain,  you  little  monkey. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  [petting  her]  But  George,  who  could  help  doing 
it  for  her?     She's  such  a  darling! 

George.     As  befits  my  bride. 

Vogelreuter.     And  don't  y  o  u  be  so  conceited,  do  you  hear? 

George.     I  am  not  conceited,  uncle,  I  am  only  frank. 

Vogelreuter.  Frank,  are  you  ?  Then  since  you  are  so  frank,  my  boy, 
suppose  you  explain  how  you  came  to  leave  such  a  scribble  as  this  on  my  desk? 

George.  Oh !  uncle,  don't  begin  to  quarrel  so  early  in  the  morning. 
Wait  until  later. 

Vogelreuter.     All  right.     But  what  does  this  scribble  of  yours  mean? 

George.  That  is  my  balance  sheet.  I  am  a  free  man  and  I  rejoice  in 
it.    I  can  support  my  wife.    You  see !     That's  the  whole  story ! 

Vogelreuter.     But  I  tell  you,  you  blockhead.  .  .  . 

Marikke.      [entering  from  the  right]  Ah,  papa,  pardon  me ! , 

Good  morning! 

Trude.     [falling  on  her  neck]  Marikke !     My  Marikke ! 

Marikke.  [kissing  her]  Darling!  [then  going  to  VOGELREUTER  she 
kisses  his  hand] . 

Vogelreuter.  Well!  So  you  are  safe  home  again...?  Whew! 
Hold  your  head  up !  What  troubles  you  ?  Head  up,  I  say.  Did  anything 
go  wrong  with  you  last  night  ? 

Marikke.      [hesitatingly]  N-n-no. 

Vogelreuter.  [to  Mrs.  Vogelreuter]  Just  look  at  her.  She's  posi- 
tively livid. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     What's  the  matter,  child? 

Marikke.  Mamma,  dear,  I  sat  up  in  the  train  all  night.  So  I  have 
had  scarcely  any  sleep. 

Vogelreuter.     Well,  are  you  through  at  last  with  this  cursed  business? 


8  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.  I  must  go  to  town  once  more;  but  pardon  me,  papa,  the 
new  Assistant  Pastor  is  out  at  the  gate  and  — 

Vogelreuter.     Who? 

Marikke.     The  Assistant  Pastor. 

Vogelreuter.      [to  TRUDE]  What  are  you  laughing  at  so  plaguily? 

Trade.  [pulling  at  Marikke's  skirt  and  with  difficulty  suppressing 
her  giggling]  O-Oh  !  I  am  not  1-1-laughing  at  all. 

Vogelreuter.     [to  Marikke]  Well,  what  does  he  want? 

Marikke.  He  says  he  does  not  venture  to  come  in  so  early.  But 
perhaps  you  would  be  good  enough  just  to.  .  .  . 

Vogelreuter.     Nonsense.     He  must  come  in. 

Marikke.     Very  well,  papa. 

George.     Good  morning,  Marikke  ! 

Marikke.     Good  morning,  George.      [Goes  out.] 

Vogelreuter.  [to  Trude]  If  you  snicker  any  longer  you  will  have  to 
be  put  in  the  corner,  even  if  it  is  before  your  wedding.     Look  out,  now. 

Trude.  Ah,  dear,  dearest  daddy,  really  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  — 
I  won't  do  so  any  more.     But  it  is  so  funny  —  he  is  so  sweet  on  Marikke  ! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  When  one  is  grown-up  to  be  a  bride,  sweetheart, 
one  does  not  say  '  sweet  on '  anybody.  School-girls  talk  that  way.  One 
ought  to  say  — 

George.     '  Gone.'      [Trude  laughs  out  again.] 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.      [rebukingly  to  George]  George ! 

Vogelreuter.     Sh ! 

[Assistant  Pastor  Haffke  enters  with  Marikke,  who  quietly  clears 
away  the  breakfast  dishes  during  the  following]  : 

Haffke  [who  speaks  in  a  rustic  way  with  a  peculiar  drazvl].  I 
scarcely  dared  presume  to  disturb  the  ladies  so  early  in  the  morning  — 

Vogelreuter.  Eight  o'clock  is  not  early  here  in  the  country,  pastor. 
You  will  soon  find  that  out. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     How  is  the  dear  old  gentleman  today? 

Haffke.      [shrugging  his  shoulders]  Tchk! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Not  worse,  I  hope? 

Haffke.  I  always  say  that  a  man  must  submit  to  growing  old,  and  if 
one  is  eighty  it  cannot  be  helped. 

Vogelreuter.     You  are  a  philosopher.     Will  you  have  a  drink? 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  9 

Haffke.     Yes,  indeed;  two,  if  necessary. 

Vogelreuter.  That's  right.  You  talk  like  a  man.  \_Poars  him  out 
one.] 

Haffke.     Yes,  indeed!    Here's  to  you!     [They  touch  little  fingers.'] 

Vogelreuter.     Won't  you  join  us,  George? 

George.     Thank  you ;  later. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     How  long  have  you  been  here,  pastor? 

Haffke.     Three  weeks. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     And  how  do  you  like  it? 

Haffke.  God  be  praised!  Anywhere  in  the  world  pleases  me,  you 
know.  It  is  very  beautiful,  everywhere.  But  here  it  is  especially  so. 
Here  there  is  something  more,  you  know.  Here  is  not  merely  glitter  [look- 
ing around  at  Marikke]  but  light Here  is  not  only  gayety,  but 

happiness.  [Springing  up  and  going  towards  Marikke.]  Ah,  permit  me, 
dear  miss,  you  have  dropped  this  napkin.  [Picks  it  up  and  reaches  it  to 
her]. 

Marikke  [smilingly]  Thank  you,  pastor.      [Goes  out.] 

[Trude,  seized  with  a  fresh  fit  of  laughter,  follows  her.] 

Vogelreuter.     Excuse  her,  pastor.     She  is  still  but  a  child. 

Haffke.  Ah !  Don't  mind  her.  She  is  quite  right.  I  cannot  break 
myself  of  this  so-called  gallantry.  And  how  can  a  man  be  gallant  in  a  long 
coat  like  this?     It  is  not  suitable. 

George.     Tell  me,  pastor,  how  did  you  happen  to  come  to  this  place? 

Haffke.  Well,  you  see,  that  has  to  do  with  this  coat,  too.  We  of  our 
mess-corps,  four  of  our  class,  were  all  waiting  our  chance  to  battle  against 
the  sins  of  the  world,  and  among  us  all  I  was  the  only  one  who  found  himself 
in  what  you  might  call  good  circumstances,  and  because  now  one  and  now  an- 
other of  us  had  to  appear  before  the  examining  committee  my  best  coat  be- 
came somewhat  shabby  from  so  much  lending.  Besides,  it  did  not  fit  the  other 
fellows  at  all.  So  I  said :  '  Fellows,  suppose  we  all  go  to  the  tailor  and  have 
him  make  us  a  coat  which  shall  be,  as  it  were,  a  composite  coat  to  fit  every- 
body.' So  we  did.  Within  four  weeks  an  old  comrade,  who  is  second 
assistant  at  the  Cathedral,  came  to  us  candidates  and  said:  '  You  holy  men, 
come  here  and  bring  the  dice-box  along,  for  down  there  in  East 
Prussia  is  an  old  man  too  feeble  to  preach  any  more.  I  have  to  get  a  supply 
for  him.     Throw  for  it.'     But  the  others  said  unanimously:     'No,  no! 


io  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

1  laftkc  must  have  the  place,  because  he  has  shared  his  black  coat  with 
us.'  So  now  I  have  to  wear  it  all  the  time  and  I  am,  alasl  not  so  pious  as 
I  look. 

Vogelreuter.      Courage,  man  1      Courage  !  you  soon  will  he. 

Haffke.  Ah!  But  you  must  not  think  that  I  wear  it  unwillingly,  or 
that  I  am  not  gladly  a  preacher.  For  just  think !  Why  1  Most  men  fill 
me  with  pity !  The  very  heart  in  my  body  is  upset  with  pity  for  them. 
Surely  our  Lord  Jesus  knew  the  like  compassion;  and  shall  I  then  not  gladly 
follow  in  His  footsteps!  Besides,  it  was  my  father's  wish.  My  father 
is  a  well-to-do  landholder.  There  are,  to  be  sure,  no  large  estates  in  the 
lowlands.  But  he  has  [spoken  emphatically,  but  also  with  some  reproach] 
considerable  money.  I  get  my  common  way  of  speaking  from  my  father. 
I  would  scarcely  do  for  a  city  preacher.  But  I  am  good  enough  for  my 
countrymen.  And  in  time  I  will  cure  myself  of  my  gallantry.  Here's 
to  you ! 

Vogelreuter.  You  are  a  good  fellow.  Will  you  stay  here?  Will 
you  take  the  old  pastor's  place? 

Haffke.     Gladly. 

Vogelreuter.     You  will  get  my  vote. 

Haffke.  Now,  just  think  of  that!  Then  I  would  have  a  parish. 
[Looking  around.]  And  then  I  would  only  lack  — .  .  .  Well !  Well!  But 
the  reason  why  I  came  was  because  the  old  pastor,  you  know,  is  unable  to  pre- 
pare the  marriage  discourse. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Ah! 

Vogelreuter.      [indifferently]  Just  as  I  thought. 

Haffke.  Now  the  question  is:  would  you  rather  postpone  it  or  will 
you  entrust  the  affair  to  such  a  youngster  as  I  am  ? 

Vogelreuter.  Pastor,  if  we  had  not  heard  you  from  the  pulpit  I  would 
have  said:  '  No;  you  are  too  much  of  a  stranger  to  us.'  But  such  kindness, 
such  warmth  comes  from  your  mouth  that  I  believe  —  eh!  Christine? 

[Mrs.  Vogelreuter  nods]. 

Vogelreuter.     And  you,  George? 

George.  I  am  not  sure,  pastor,  I  may  deceive  myself,  but  I  believe 
we  two  are  in  sympathy. 

Haffke.  In  my  case  that  is  saying  little.  I  am  in  extraordinary  sym- 
pathy with  everybody. 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  u 

George.     Anyhow,  I  am  glad  — 

Hafke.  Then  pray  leave  us  a  while.  In  order  to  do  my  duty  by  you 
I  need  to  learn  something  bad  about  you. 

George,  [gives  him  his  hand,  laughing']  Make  it  as  easy  for  me  as 
you  can,  then.      [Goes  out.] 

Haffke.  You  will  permit  me  to  take  down  a  few  notes  for  my  dis- 
course ? 

Vogelreuter.     To  be  sure,  pastor. 

Haffke.  Then,  with  your  permission:  Your  nephew  stands  in  very 
intimate  relations  with  your  family,  does  he  not? 

Vogelreuter.     Quite  right. 

Haffke.     How  did  that  come  about? 

Vogelreuter.  Yes,  yes !  How  that  comes  about :  We  had,  here  in 
East  Prussia,  you  know,  in  '67,  that  frightful  famine  year.  Do  you  re- 
member it? 

Haffke.     Very  little.     I  was  still  quite  young. 

Vogelreuter.  It  was  frightful.  Potatoes  rotted  in  the  ground. 
Fodder  was  ruined.  Rye  there  was  none.  We  landholders  I  can  tell  you ! 
—  Ah!  My  brother-in-law,  my  dead  sister's  husband,  who  had  an  estate 
over  there  in  Ragnitz,  found  one  day  that  he  could  not  pay  his  interest  any 
more,  so  he,  with  all  his  pride  of  birth  —  that  was  the  class  of  man  he  was  — 
put  a  bullet  through  his  head. 

Haffke.     Oh,  horrible !  horrible !     Was  your  sister  still  living  then  ? 

Vogelreuter.     No,  thank  God !     Well !  and  ever  since  that  day  — 

Haffke.  Pardon  the  interruption  of  a  question  that  has  nothing  di- 
rectly to  do  with  this  matter.  I  have  heard  the  people  in  the  village  call 
your  foster-daughter,  Marikke,  the  '  Unlucky  Child.'  Does  that,  perhaps, 
have  something  to  do  with  this  year's  misfortune? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Don't  you  know  about  that,  pastor?  Yes,  only 
think  how  we  happened  on  that  child.  In  that  same  awful  winter  —  wait  a 
minute,  I  am  going  to  tell  him  about  this  first  —  my  husband  and  I  were 
coming  from  Heideborg,  the  village  yonder,  where  we  had  established  a 
soup-kitchen.  At  the  corner  of  the  woods,  just  where  it  makes  off  from  the 
road,  all  of  a  sudden  our  horse  shied.  We  looked  out  and  there  lay  stretched 
across  the  road  a  poor  Lithuanian  woman  with  a  child  at  her  breast,  declaring 
she  wanted  to  be  run  over.     We  bundled  the  woman  into  the  sleigh.     How 


i2  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

she  looked ! 

Vogelreuter.  And  I  found  live  things  in  the  fur  robes,  I  can  tell  you, 
pastor,  for  a  quarter  of  a  year  afterwards. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  And  the  little  baby....  Oh,  myl  Oh,  my! 
But  when  we  had  bathed  it  and  fed  it  and  laid  it  on  a  pretty  white  pillow, 
and  when  it  smiled  up  at  us,  with  its  wan  pretty  face,  my  husband  said: 
'  See  here,  wife !  Perhaps  Heaven  has  sent  this  child  to  us.  It  is  to  be  our 
share  in  the  great  misfortune.' 

Vogelreuter.     For  we  did  not  have  Trude  then,  you  must  know. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  No,  she  did  not  come  to  us  until  three  years  later. 
Where  was  I?  —  oh,  yes,  —  then  we  bought  off  the  drunken  mother,  and 
were  glad  enough  when  she  cleared  out,  for  she  smelt  so  of  Hoffman's  drops 
you  could  hardly  stand  her. 

Vogelreuter  [explaining'].  That  is  what  the  topers  around  here  drink 
instead  of  whisky. 

Haffke.     What  a  pity !     What  a  pity ! 

Vogelreuter.     But  to  return  to  my  nephew  — 

Haffke.  Pardon  me  one  more  question.  How  did  it  turn  out  later 
as  to  the  mother? 

Vogelreuter.     Oh,  yes;  that's  a  sad  chapter.     And  this  very  day, — 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     This  very  day?  —  what? 

Vogelreuter.  Oh,  Heavens !  —  nothing.  Don't  interapt !  Well 
pastor,  you're  right.  The  woman  returned,  of  course,  and  as  we  would 
not  let  her  see  the  child,  we  gave  her  some  more  money.  Of  course  the  beast 
saw  through  that  quick  enough  and  she  has  become  the  worst  plague  in  the 
country. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Wasn't  that  the  mother's  instinct,  though,  Henry  ? 

Vogelreuter.  Oh,  of  course !  It  must  have  been  the  mother's  in- 
stinct, since  every  time  she  honored  us  wTith  her  company  something  dis- 
appeared, so  at  last  I  had  to  put  the  police  on  guard  at  the  door.  Huh !  that 
scared  her  off. 

Haffke.  And  how  does  your  foster-daughter  take  it?  Has  she  any 
suspicion?     Does  she  know? 

Vogelreuter.  We  told  her  her  mother  was  dead.  She  saw  her  once, 
though. 

Haffke.     When  did  that  mischance  occur? 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  13 

Vogelreuter.  On  her  confirmation-day.  Just  as  the  girl  was  coming 
out  of  the  church  we  heard  a  shriek.  What  was  up?  The  old  hag  had 
been  watching  the  procession,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees  before  her,  clasped 
her  in  her  arms,  and  covered  her  hands  and  feet  with  kisses. 

Haffke  [shuddering].     Frightful. 

Vogelreuter.  I  snatched  the  child  away  at  once,  as  you  may  imagine, 
and  carried  her  home.  But  we  had  to  explain  the  affair  to  her.  A  drunken 
vagrant,  we  told  her.  I  am  not  sure  whether  she  believed  it  or  not.  She 
was  quite  ill  after  it. 

Haffke.     And  now,  Mr.  Vogelreuter?     How  is  it  now? 

Vogelreuter  [roguishly].     How  anxiously  you  ask,  pastor. 

George,  [entering  from  center,  Trude  behind  him]  Now,  then,  have 
you  quite  disposed  of  my  character  by  this  time  ? 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  really,  we  have  not  even  begun  on  it.  The  pastor 
was  more  interested  elsewhere. 

Haffke  [earnestly].  You  must  not  believe  that,  Mr.  von  Hartwig. 
But  there  are  destinies  bearing  so  mysterious  an  impress —  [He  motions 
■with  his  eyes  toward  Marikke,  who  enters  from  the  left  with  an  armful  of 
laundered  pieces.] 

George  [following  the  glance] .     You  are  right. 

Haffke.  If  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  call  another  time  about  the 
discourse. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter  [reaching  him  her  hand].  You  know  you  will 
always  find  a  welcome  with  us. 

Vogelreuter.  Remember  us  to  the  dear  old  pastor.  Towards  even- 
ing we  will  come,  as  usual,  to  inquire  for  him. 

Haffke.  That  reminds  me.  I  had  almost  forgotten.  He  begs  that 
if  you  bring  an  eggnog  again  that  you  will  make  it  a  little  sweeter.  It  wasn't 
sweet  enough  last  time. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Dear  me !     The  poor  old  gentleman ! 

Haffke.  Don't  speak  so,  Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  When  all  our  wishes 
and  hopes  cling  to  a  lump  of  sugar  we  shall  be  well  out  of  our  misery.  Good 
day!  [To  Marikke.]  My  dear  Miss  Marikke,  may  I  say,  till  we  meet 
again? 

Marikke  [preoccupied].  Good-bye!  [Haffke  escorted  by  Vogel- 
reuter goes  out.] 


i4  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Now,  you  need  not  feel  guilty,  my  sweet  pet.  No 
one  shall  scold  you. 

Trude.  Ah  1  I  am  so  ashamed.  He  was  so  jolly  when  he  came  and 
now  his  feelings  are  hurt.     He  was  surely  vexed. 

George.     Not  vexed,  only  a  little  serious. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     How  does  he  please  you,  anyhow,  Marikke? 

Marikke  [who  is  folding  up  the  laundered  pieces,  looking  up].  Who, 
mamma  ? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Why,  the  new  pastor. 

Marikke.  Oh,  mamma ;  I  have  had  so  much  on  my  mind  for  the  last 
few  days  I  have  not  given  him  a  thought. 

Trude  [to  George,  aside].     Now,  George,      you      tell  her. 

Marikke.  Trude,  how  about  our  Manzanillo-tree?  Are  any  blos- 
soms out  this  morning? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  What!  You  have  not  even  been  to  see  that  be- 
loved tree  of  yours? 

Marikke.     I  have  had  no  time,  mamma  ! 

Trude.     Now,       tell  her      now. 

George.  Marikke,  you  mustn't  drudge  so  for  us.  Trude  does  not 
wish  you  to  either.     It  is  almost  a  sin  for  us  to  allow  it. 

[Marikke  looks  into  vacancy  and  hums  softly]. 

Trude.     She  is  not  listening  to  you  at  all,  she  is  singing  to  herself. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     What  are  you  singing? 

Marikke.     I?      Singing? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Yes,  you  were  singing  this  very  minute. 

Marikke.  Oh ! .  .  .  .  Last  night  at  the  station  in  Insterburg  I  heard 
a  song.  .  .  A  Lithuanian  song.  Some  gipsies  were  singing  it  in  a  fourth- 
class  coach.     Listen!     It  went.  .  .yes.  .  .this  way  [iittg\j]  : 

1  Zwirio  czenay,  zwirio  tenay 
Kam'  mano  bernyczo 
Rid  wid  wil  dai  dai.  .  . 
Ner  mano  bernyczo .  .  . ' 

George.     And  the  Lithuanian  words,   did  you  remember  them  just 
from  hearing  them  once? 
Marikke.     Of  course. 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  15 

George.     How  in  the  world  did  you  learn  them  ? 
Marikke.     I  have       always       known  them. 
George.     What  do  they  mean? 

Marikke.  Oh,  really,  they  mean  nothing.  [Sings.]  'Here,'... 
No .  .  .      [Sings]  : 

'  I  looked  here,  I  looked  there ; 
Where  then  is  my  Lover? 
Rid  wid  wil  dai  dai, 

Nowhere  —  is  my  Lover.' 

Vogelreuter,  re-entering  during  the  last  words,  goes  softly  up  to 
Marikke  and  catches  her  from  behind.] 

[Marikke  screams."} 

Vogelreuter.  There,  now !  Patience,  my  gipsy.  A  lover  will  be 
coming  to  you  some  day,.  .  .perhaps  he's  on  the  way  now.  .  .  .  Well, 
what's  the  matter?     Haven't  I  got  you? 

Marikke  [zvho  with  tearful  sobs  has  nestled  close  to  him'].  You  — 
frightened  me  —  so  ! 

Vogelreuter.  How  long  since  you  have  been  so  easily  frightened?.  .  . 
This  morning,  especially,  eh?.  .  .  .      Has  anything  happened  to  you? 

Marikke.     I  told  you  before :  nothing. 

Vogelreuter.  Something  has  happened,  though ! .  .  .  I  can  tell 
you  that  straight,  and  now  speak  out  and  tell  me  the  truth. 

Marikke.     Well,  then ! .  .  .      Something  did  happen. 

Vogelreuter.     Out  with  it,  then !     Go  on ! 

Marikke.     Some  one  annoyed  me  ! 

Vogelreuter.     Annoy  — !     Where  was  it? 

Marikke.     Not  far  from  the  house. 

Vogelreuter.     When  was  it?     As  you  were  coming  from  the  station? 

Marikke.     Yes. 

Vogelreuter.  That's  beyond  me !  Everybody  around  here  knows 
you.  Every  one  knows  you  are  no  runabout.  How  did  he  look  ?  Was  he 
a  workman  or  a  gentleman  ? 

Marikke.     A  —  gentleman.  — 

Vogelreuter.     What  did  he  say  to  you  ? 

Marikke.     He  did  not  say  anything. 


\C  SAINT  JOHNS  FIRE 

Vogelreuter.     Did  Ik-  take  hold  of  you,  or  try  to? 
Marikke.     No  I 

Vogelreuter.      I  thought  you  said  he  annoyed  you? 

Marikke.     Annoyed  me!     Yes. 

Vogelreuter.     You  mean  he  followed  you? 

Marikke.      YES. 

Vogelreuter.     How  far? 

Marikke.  To  the  gate.  I  opened  it  quickly.  And  then  he  turned 
away. 

Vogelreuter  [to  George].     What  do  you  say  to  that? 

[George  shrugs  his  shoulders.] 

Vogelreuter.  It's  a  very  peculiar  story.  .  .  .  And  that's  what  fright- 
ened you  so  ? 

Marikke.     Oh!      Now  I  am  quite  myself  again. 

Vogelreuter  [raising  her  face  towards  his~\.     You  don't  look  so  to  me. 

Trude.     Now,  papa,  don't  torment  her. 

Vogelreuter.     Off  with  you  now  and  take  a  good  long  nap. 

Marikke.  Not  yet,  papa,  I  can't.  I  must  have  a  talk  with  George 
first.      It's  about  his  study.     I  don't  know  where  to  put  the  big  bookcase. 

Vogelreuter.     You  can  talk  about  that  some  other  time. 

Marikke.  No.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  forget  how  the  other  things  are 
placed. 

Vogelreuter.  Very  well,  I  don't  care.  [To  Mrs.  Vogelreuter.] 
I  am  going  down  to  the  cow-stalls.     Will  you  come  along? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter  [rising  and  putting  aside  her  needlework].  Of 
course  I  will. 

Vogelreuter.  [To  Marikke.]  But  see  here,  now!  Listen  to  me! 
For  the  next  few  days  you  are  not  to  leave  this  house  for  one  minute  without 
an  escort.     Not  a  step  outside  the  door  —  do  you  hear? 

Trude.     But  why  not,  papa  ? 

Vogelreuter.  After  what's  happened.  [To  Trude.]  Nor  you 
either.  .  .  .      Never  in  all  my  life  has  such  a  thing  ever  happened  here.  .  . 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  But,  Henry,  in  broad  daylight,  it  seems  to  me  it  is 
quite  different  then. 

Vogelreuter.  It's  all  the  same.  I  have  my  reasons.  .  .  .  Besides 
[going  towards  the  door]  ....      Come,  I  have  something  to  tell  you .... 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  17 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter  [as  she  passes  by,  patting  Marikke  on  the  head]. 
Now,  see,  my  dear,  that  you  take  a  good  rest.      [  They  go  out.'] 

Marikke.     Trude,  you  must  go  too. 

Trude.     I!     Why? 

Marikke.     You  know  why,  darling  —  the  furnishing. 

Trude.     Oh,  that  silly  old  furnishing.     A  wedding  isn't  Christmas. 

George.  We  shall  be  glad  if  it  turns  out  to  be  a  Christmas  for  us, 
Little  One. 

Trude.  All  right,  if  you  take  it  so.  But  don't  be  too  long.  [Goes 
out.~] 

George.     Why  are  you  so  suddenly  lost  in  thought? 

Marikke.  I.  .  Oh,  I  —  I  am  picturing  to  myself  how  the  corner- 
room —  your  study  —  will  look. 

George.  Marikke,  dear,  how  can  we  ever  thank  you  enough  for  all 
you  are  doing? 

Marikke.  Don't  mention  it,  George.  I  have  my  own  reward.  When 
I  am  arranging  the  furniture  I  think  how  it  will  all  become  a  part  of  your 
life.  I  say  to  myself,  '  Here  they  will  sit  and  drink  tea ;  there  you  will  work 
in  your  study ;  and  here  you  will  rest  when  your  work  is  over .  .  .  and  that's  all 
so  comforting.  .  .  I  even  took  a  trial  nap  for  you  yesterday.  .  .  Yes,  really; 
but  there  is  something  I  must  speak  to  you  about,  George :  In  the  moving 
an  accident  happened.     The  large  mirror  from  the  best  room  was  cracked. 

George.     Well,  if  our  friendship  is  not  cracked!.  .  . 

Marikke.     It  will  not  be. 

George.     Never  on  my  side,  Marikke! 

Marikke.  And  certainly  never  on  mine.  .  .  And  then  I  had  the 
large  mahogany  book-case  polished.     Is  that  satisfactory? 

George.     Everything  you  do  satisfies  me. 

Marikke  [hesitatingly].  And  now  —  I  must  —  tell  you  about  some- 
thing, George.  Something  important.  When  I  unpacked  the  bookcase 
I  found  behind  the  books  a  blue  note-book. 

George  [still  without  suspecting].     What  sort  of  a  note-book? 

Marikke.  George,  you  ought  not  to  leave  that  lying  around,  not 
even  hidden  behind  the  books,  George,  when  Trude  comes  into  the  house. 

George.     For  God's  sake,  what  note-book  was  it? 

Marikke.     I  think  —  it  contains  —  poems.  .  .  . 


18  SAINT  JOHNS  FIRE 

George.  You  think  it  contains  —  poems!.  .  .  I  have  missed  that 
book  ever  since  last  winter.  I  thought  I  had  lost  it  !  Marikkc,  tell  mc 
now,  did  you  read  the  book  through? 

Marikke.     N-n-no. 

George.     Then,  why  do  you  say  I  mustn't  leave  it  around? 

Marikkc.  I  read  the  first  poem  and  I  began  the  second.  And  then 
I  thought :    Now,  you'd  better  leave  that  alone. 

George.  And  you  did  not  look  at  any  of  the  other  poems  —  not  in 
the  middle  of  the  book  or  anywhere? 

Marikkc.     No. 

George.     Will  you  swear  to  that? 

Marikke.     Yes,  I  will. 

George.     Then  swear! 

Marikke.     I  swear!     Now,  are  you  satisfied? 

George.  Thank  Heaven !  You  must  not  imagine,  though,  Marikke, 
that  those  poems  are  anything  I  am  ashamed  of.  No,  I  have  held  those 
little  writings  of  mine  most  sacred  always.  Four  years  ago  something  came 
to  me  —  was  graven  into  my  soul.  .  .  .that  no  one  knows  or  dreams  of. 
And  no  one  must  ever  know. 

Marikke.     No  one?.  .  .Not  even  I? 

George.  You  ?.  .  .  Not  even  you.  What  did  you  do  with  that 
book?.  .  .      Give  it  back  to  me! 

Marikke  [puts  her  hand  up  to  her  breast,  then  she  turns  her  hack  and 
takes  the  hook  from  her  bosom].     Here  it  is. 

George.  How  shall  I  thank  you,  Marikke?  How  can  I  ever  thank 
you? 

Marikkc.     You  can  do  me  one  favor.      Promise  me  you  will. 

George.     If  I  can;  certainly. 

Marikkc.  George,  I  must  confess  to  you  first.  I  deceived  papa  just 
now,  when  he  questioned  me.  It  was  no  man  who  annoyed  me  last  night. 
...  It  was  a  woman.  .  .a  Lithuanian  woman.  .  .George,  that  woman  was 
my  mother. 

George  [stunned].     But,  Marikke,  I  thought  your  mother  was  dead. 

Marikke.  My  God !  It  is  not  true.  None  of  you  have  ever  told  me 
the  truth.  That  was  my  mother  who  waylaid  me  on  my  confirmation-day. 
It  was  the  same  woman  last  night.      I  would  take  the  Lord's  supper  on  it. 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  19 

but  it  was  so. 

George.     Tell  me  about  it.     How  did  it  happen? 

Marikke.  I  was  walking  along  quietly  —  it  was  already  almost  light — 
when  something  stood  up  from  the  ditch  alongside  of  the  road.  I  looked  and 
it  was  a  beggar-woman,  and  she  called  out,  '  Marikke!.  .  .  .my  little  lady! 
my  little  daughter ! '  I  grew  cold  with  fright,  and  I  began  to  run,  while  I 
heard  always  behind  me,  '  Marikke,  my  little  lady,  my  little  daughter.' 
And  now  I  realize  that  I  ran  away  from  my  —  own  mother! 

George.     Hm ! 

Marikke.  You  see,  dear,  dear  George,  that  was  wrong.  I  cannot  be 
responsible  for  that.  So  now  I  beg  of  you  earnestly,  so  earnestly :  I  must  see 
her  again.  I  must  know  who  I  am ....  and  since  papa  has  forbidden  me  to 
leave  the  house  —  and  since  I  am  —  afraid  besides,  or  else  I  would  do  it  in 
spite  of  him,  — therefore  I  beg  you,  dear  George,  go  find  her,  please,  you 
find  her .  .  .  She  will  surely  be  in  the  neighborhood ...  in  the  village,  or  at  the 
station,  or  along  the  road. 

George.     And  then  ? 

Marikke.  Then  bring  her  to  me  —  into  the  garden  —  or  better  still, 
here  into  this  room  —  towards  evening,  when  papa  and  mamma  have  gone 
over  to  see  the  old  pastor. 

George.     Marikke,  I  can't  do  that. 

Marikke.  I  ask  of  you  for  the  first  time  to  do  something  for  me  and 
you  say  you  cannot. 

George.  But,  Marikke,  see !  You  have  been  awfully  good  to  me.  .  . 
You  have  not  always  been  so,  the  more's  the  pity,  but  even  if  you  had  done 
more  for  me  I  could  not  do  that.  No,  not  behind  the  parents'  back.  I 
don't  know  what  might  come  out  of  it ! 

Marikke.  But,  George,  only  think  how  even  an  '  Unlucky  Child '  like 
me  must  long  just  once  to  know  her  own  mother,  even  if  she  is  only  a 
Lithuanian  beggar-woman.  I  long  to  lay  my  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  be 
petted,  and  cry  myself  to  sleep  on  my  own  mother's  breast ! 

George.     Are  you  not  petted?     Isn't  mamma  always  kind  to  you ? 

Marikke.  Yes,  but  it  is  not  the  same,  not  the  same.  Never  in  my 
life  have  I  so  longed  as  I  do  now  for  my  own  flesh  and  blood. 

George.     Why  now? 

Marikke.     Because ...    my  heart  is .  .  .bursting.  .  .      [Pleading.] 


20  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

George ! 

George.      I  don't  know  w  liat  will  come  of  it.      I  dare  not. 

Marikke.     So,  you  arc  like  that? 

George.     Yes,  I  am  like  that. 

Marikke.      George ! 

George.     Hm  1 

Marikke.  George,  have  you  forgotten  what  you  said  a  little  while  ago 
was  graven  into  your  soul  four  years  ago? 

George  [after  a  silence'].     Marikke,  you  di  d  read  the  book  through? 

Marikke.  Yes,  I  did  read  the  book  through.  Will  you  do  it 
now  ? 

George.     Marikke,  why  did  you  swear  falsely? 

Marikke  [shrugging  her  shoulders'].  Oh,  my  God!.  .  .still,  will  you 
not  do  it? 

George.     So  be  it !     I  will. 

Curtain. 

ACT  II 

The  same  scene. 
Scene  I 

The  Housekeeper  [at  the  door  at  the  right].  May  I  come  in,  Miss 
Marikke? 

Marikke  [who  is  sitting  at  the  sewing-table  with  linen  garments  in  her 
lap,  looking  out  into  the  garden  dreamily].  Oh,  is  that  you?  Come 
right  in. 

Housekeeper.  You're  a-sitting,  I  see,  at  work  —  on  —  little  Trude's 
clothes.  Lord!  If  that  ain't  a  wardrobe  fit  for  a  royal  princess!  But 
just  listen,  the  Missus  has  given  me  the  orders  for  the  wedding-dinner. 
Yes!  un'  you  know  about  the  fish!  To  be  sure,  I'm  always  for  home 
markets.     But  carp,  law !  you  know  carp's  too  common. 

Marikke.     Why  so?     Carp  is  quite  fine. 

Housekeeper.  It's  too  common  when  it's  Miss  Trude  a-having  her 
wedding.  When  it's  you  a-having  your  wedding,  why  then  we  can  have 
carp. 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  21 

Marikke  [smiling].     Perhaps  carp  is  too  poor  for  me,  too. 

Housekeeper.  Naw  !  Naw !  —  Everything  in  its  place.  I'll  make 
it  fine  for  you  with  a  very  fine  Polish  sauce.  You'll  see  how  good  it  will  be. 
But  little  Miss  Trude  must  have  sea-fish.  Come  now,  write  to  Konigsberg 
about  it,  right  away. 

Marikke.     Very  well !     I  will  speak  to  mamma  about  it. 

Housekeeper.     You're  not  offendevd? 

Marikke.     Oh,  no ! 

Housekeeper.  For  after  all  you  see  you're  only  a  poor  Lithuanian 
foundling. 

Marikke.     I  know. 

Housekeeper.  But  we're  all  fond  of  you,  though.  Then  about  the 
apple-salad.     We'll  make  that  together,  both  of  us,  won't  we? 

Marikke.     Have  you  seen  anything  of  Mr.  George? 

Housekeeper.  Why,  no .  .  .  But  now,  Miss  Marikke,  just  listen  to 
me  and  I'll  tell  you  something  fine.  The  young  assistant,  the  new  pastor,  or 
whatever  he  is,  is  in  love  with  you. 

Marikke.     Yes  ? 

Housekeeper.     He  is  going  to  ask  for  your  hand. 

Marikke.     Ah ! 

Housekeeper.  You'll  have  your  luck,  too,  Miss  Marikke,  you  mark 
my  words.  .  .  .      You'll  be  a  St.  John's  bride  yet. 

Marikke.     What  is  that? 

Housekeeper.  What's  a  St.  John's  bride?  I  will  tell  you!  In  the 
new  seal  of  Solomon  it  is  written  whoever  receives  or  gives  the  kiss  of  love 
on  St.  John's  Day  will  be  faithful  in  love  until  death.  —  So  it  is  written  in 
the  new  seal  of  Solomon. 

Marikke.     Indeed ! 

Trude  [entering  from  the  center  with  her  hands  behind  her  back~\. 
Marikke,  I  have  something  for  you. 

Marikke.     What  is  it? 

Trude.  But  she  [pointing  to  the  Housekeeper]  must  go  out 
first.     Clear  out,  clear  out! 

Housekeeper.     I  am  going,  honey,  I  am  going!      [Goes.] 

Trude.     Now,  shut  your  eyes  ! 

[Marikke  does  it.] 


22  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

[Trude  holds  a  bunch  of  orange-colored  tulip-like  flowers,  with  maple- 
like  leaves,  before  her  face.'] 

Marikkc.  The  Manzanillo-trcc ! .  .  .  .  The  first  flowers  from  our 
Manzanillo-tree!  [Burying  her  face  in  the  bunch.]  So  that  is  in 
bloom  ! 

Trude.     Now,  aren't  you  glad? 

Marikkc.     Oh,  yes,  darling,  thank  you ! 

Trude.     And  think  who  gathered  them  for  you?.  .  .      George! 

Marikkc.     For  me? 

Trade.  Yes,  and  I  grew  quite  faint,  I  can  tell  you,  as  he  was  hanging 
up  there  on  the  tree,  so  high  in  the  air. 

Marikkc     To  think  he  did  it.  .  .for       me  ! 

Trude.  My!  How  proud  you  are  right  off.  He  would  do  much 
more  than  that  for  m  e. 

Marikkc.     Oh,  yes,  for  you  ! .  .  .      But  where  is  he  now  ? 

Trade.     I  don't  know.     I  never  know  where  he  is,  today. 

Marikkc.     Did  he  say  he  had  to  go  anywhere  ? 

Trude.  Yes,  he  said  he  wanted  to  go  over  into  the  fields.  That  was 
quite  a  while  ago.  I  asked  to  go  with  him  and  I  begged  and  I  begged,  but 
he  would  not  let  me. 

Marikke.     Ah!      [She  sighs.] 

Trude.  He  is  always  away  today.  Papa  has  asked  for  him  two  or 
three  times.  Today,  especially,  he  is  so  —  so  —  yes  !  —  You  know,  at 
times,  he  is  not  nice  to  me. 

Marikke.     But,  dear  child,  that  can't  be  true. 

Trude.  Sometimes.  ...  If  I  did  not  know  he  loved  me ! .  .  .  And, 
besides,  sometimes,  —  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  tell  you.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  will! 
.  .  .     Sometimes  I  am  afraid  that  some  one  will  take  him  away  from  me. 

Marikke  [smiling'].     George  —  from  you?     Who  could  do  that? 

Trude.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  But  sometimes  he  looks  at  me  —  a  little 
lovingly  —  but  almost  pityingly —  He  must  not  pity  me!  Why 
should  he?     When  I  am  so  happy. 

Marikke  [petting  her].     If  you  are  only  happy! 

Trude.  And  then  I  am  forever  fearing  that  perhaps  he  loves  some 
one  else  and  treats  me,  as  he  does,  just  out  of  pity,  or, —  Oh,  if  I  only 
knew ! 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  23 

Marikke.     But  darling ! 

Trude.  Just  think!  I  am  still  so  young.  How  silly  I  acted  only 
this  morning !     Afterwards  I  was  so  sorry.     But  I  do  so  love  to  laugh ! 

Marikke.     And  you  shall  laugh  —  always  —  always  — 

Trude.  Besides  —  you  know  —  mamma  thinks  I  do  not  love  him  in 
the  right  way.  I  love  him,  as  a  child  loves,  mamma  thinks,  not  like  a 
woman. 

Marikke  [embarrassed,  abstracted^].     And  he  will  be  a  young  father. 

Trude.  Wouldn't  he?  We  love  like  children  love,  mamma  thinks. 
And  mamma  thinks  that  it  is  too  soon  anyhow  for  me.  But  mamma  fusses 
because  I  am  going  to  leave  her.  Marikke,  you  will  be  good  to  her,  won't 
you  ?     You  will  soon  be  her  only  one. 

Marikke.     I  —  mamma's? 

Trude.     Why,  yes. 

Marikke.     Whose  only  one  I  am  I  shall  soon  know. 

Trude.     What  do  you  mean? 

Marikke.     There  he  is. 

[George  comes  in,  center.'] 

Trude  [running  up  to  him].     George!     George! 

[Marikke  also  takes  a  rapid  step  toward  him,  and  then  halts.] 

Trude  \_tousling  him].     Ugh,  you  rascal! 

George.     What !     What ! 

Trude.     Nothing!     I  only  said  rascal. 

George  [gently].  Now,  listen,  little  mouse!  That  may  be  well 
enough  in  papa's  mouth,  but  it  does  not  suit  yours. 

Trude.  Nothing  I  do  suits  you.  Everything  Marikke  does  is  lovely. 
Go  away !  you  can  marry  her ! ! ! 

George.     Marikke.  .  .  .will  not  have  me. 

Marikke.     George,  I  give  you  my  best  thanks. 

George.     What  for? 

Marikke  [lifting  up  the  flowers].     For  these,  George, .  .  . 

George.     Oh,  please,  I  beg  of  you.     When  it  is  nothing  more  than  that ! 

Marikke.     Were  you  out  in  the  fields? 

George.     Yes.     I  have  been  out  in  the  fields. 

Trude.  And  papa  is  angry  with  you.  He  has  been  looking  for  you 
all  day.     He  wants  to  speak  to  you. 


24  SAINT  JOHNS   FIRE 

George.      Oh!  docs  he ! .  .  .  .       I  know  why.  .  .       I  [ml 

Marikke.      Which  way  d-d  you  go? 

George.     Oh  !  —  every  way  ! 

Marikke,     And  did  you  find  anything? 

Trude.     Why,  what  was  he  to  find? 

George.  Yes,  that's  so.  And  what  could  I  find?  Your  —  xMan- 
zanillo-tree,  children,  is  certainly  a  comical  fellow....  He  stands  out 
there  tall  and  proud  like  Saul  among  the  prophets  —  quite  dumbfounded.  .  . 

Trude.  My  great-grandfather  brought  it  with  him  from  South 
America.  — 

George.  Is  that  why  you  love  It  so  much,  Marikke,  because  it  is 
foreign? 

Marikke  [busied  with  the  clothes].     Perhaps 

Trude.     No,       that       isn't  why. 

Marikke.     Why,  what  now? 

Trude.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  why.  Once  when  she  was  in  Konigs- 
berg  with  papa  he  took  her  with  him  to  the  opera.  The  opera  was  called 
1  L'Africaine.' 

Marikke  [anxiously] .     Oh!  please  do  keep  quiet. 

Trude.     There  comes  in,  in  that  opera,  a  poison-tree  —  doesn't  there? 

George.     Yes. 

Trude.     It's  called  the  Manzanillo-tree,  isn't  it? 

George.     Quite  right. 

Trude.  And  whoever  inhales  the  fragrance  of  its  flowers  must  die. 
Do  you  know  what  she  did  after  that?  I  did  the  same,  with  her.  We 
would  go  under  our  Manzanillo-tree  and  smell  the  fallen  flowers  and  then 
we  would  lie  down  a  long  time  — 

George.     To  die? 

Trude.     Yes,  to  die ! 

Marikke.     You  can  imagine,  George,  what  a  long  while  ago  that  was. 

Trude.     Oh,  my !  ever  so  long  ago  —  four  years !  We  died  often  then. 

[Marikke  casts  a  terrified  glance  at  George,  which  he  returns  re- 
flectingly.'] 

Trude.     But  now  we  are  quite  lively  again. 

George.  Thank  Heaven!  Listen,  little  one,  run  and  find  papa. 
Tell  him  I  will  be  with  him  soon.     Oh,  please,  please ! 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  25 

Trude.     Well,  if  I  must.  .  .      Marikke,  will  you  come  with  me? 

Marikke.     I  would  rather  stay  here. 

Trude.     Well,  so  would  I. 

George.     Be  good,  little  one ! 

[Trude,  with  a  soft  sigh,  goes  out.~\ 

Marikke  [swiftly  and  softly].     Did  you  find  her? 

[George  nods.] 

Marikke.     Will  she  come?     Answer  me! 

George.  Oh,  Marikke,  when  I  made  you  that  promise  this  morning, 
you  see  I  did  not  fully  comprehend  it.  Until  today  I  never  saw  your  —  no, 
I  would  rather  not  utter  that  word  —  the  Old  Hag,  as  they  call  her 
.  .  .  Marikke,  I  cannot  take  it  upon  me  to  wrong  this  house  so.  She  ought 
not  to  come. 

Marikke  [anxiously'].     George! 

George.     Take  uncle  in  your  confidence,  at  least. 

Marikke.     No,  no  !    No  one  but  you  !     Only  you  ! 

George.  Now  just  tell  me  what  you  really  wish  to  do  about  this. 
You  belong  here.  Here  you  have  everything  heart  could  wish.  Here  you 
have  love  —  you  have  — 

Marikke.     — Bread!     Yes,  I  have  bread. 

George.     Of  that  I  do  not  speak. 

Marikke.  But  I  do.  And  do  I  not  earn  it?  I  earn  the  little  love  I 
receive  here,  too.  I  am  '  The  Unlucky  Child.'  But  I  will  accept  no  favors. 
I  earn  all  I  get. 

George.     The  devil  himself  is  pent  up  in  you  today. 

Marikke.     Indeed,       that       devil  is  always  pent  up  in  me. 

George.  Marikke,  give  it  up.  Something  fatal  will  come  of  it.  We 
shall  live  to  see  it.    Whatever  goes  against  nature  revenges  itself. 

Marikke.  Can  it  be  against  nature  for  a  child  to  cry  out  for  its  own 
mother? 

George.     She  is  not  your  mother.    Your  mother  is  here  in  this  house. 

Marikke.  Trude's  mother  is  here.  Not  mine.  A  mother  must  feel 
for  her  child.  .  .know  her  child's  aching  heart.  She  would  understand  all 
that  is  in  — 

George.     Sh ! 

Trude   [entering].      What  are  you   two   always  whispering  about? 


26  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRF 

Please,  please  tell  me!  My  heart  is  almost  torn  to  pieces  when  you  talk 
together  so  secretly. 

Marikke.     But,  darling,  it  is  all  —  all  —  done  for  you. 

George  [with  misgivings'].     Hm! 

Marikke  [petting  her  and  looking  Juilf  anxiously  toward  George~\. 
Really  it  is  —  all  —  for  you. 

Vogelreuter  {entering'].  Well,  at  last  you  are  here?  See  here,  young- 
ster! Where  the  devil  have  you  been  running  about,  today?  It  almost 
looks  as  if  you  were  trying  to  keep  out  of  my  way. 

George.     Oh,  uncle ! 

Vogelreuter  [turning  to  Marikke'].  And  you,  too!  Did  you  remem- 
ber the  eggnog  for  the  old  pastor? 

Marikke.     No,  I  forgot  it  completely. 

Vogelreuter.  Get  it  ready  now,  then,  quick!  And  more  sugar  in  it, 
you  know. 

Marikke.     Yes,  papa ! 

Vogelreuter.  You,  little  one,  can  go  and  help.  It's  time  you  did 
something  for  once. 

Trude.     Yes,  papa! 

Marikke.  But,  papa,  you  can't  take  it  with  you,  you  and  mamma, 
because  it  will  have  to  cool  off  first;  and  that  takes  forever. 

Vogelreuter.     Then  bring  it  along  with  you  afterwards. 

Marikke  [with  a  glance  at  George] .  Can't  Trude  do  it  ?  I  have  so 
much  to  do. 

Trude.     No.     Not  I. 

Vogelreuter.  Yes,  indeed  you.  Precisely  you.  And  see  that  you 
don't  run  right  off,  as  you  did  last  time.     Do  you  hear? 

Trude.  Oh,  papa  dear!  Last  time  the  old  man  wanted  to  hold  my 
hand  in  his  the  whole  time.  And  his  hand  is  so  cold  and  wrinkled  and  hairy, 
like  the  hands  of  the  dead. 

Vogelreuter.  My  child,  come  here !  That  hairy  hand  once  baptized 
you  —  do  you  hear?  And  when  you  were  confirmed  that  hairy  hand  was 
laid  in  blessing  upon  your  head.  .  .  .And  can  you  now  refuse  to  warm  it 
in  your  warm  little  child's  hand?  Never  let  me  hear  you  say  anything  like 
that  again.  .  .  .Now  kiss  me! 

[Trude  kisses  him.] 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  27 

'Marikke  [who  has  in  the  mean  time  drawn  close  to  George,  aside']. 
Will  you  do  it  ?    Answer  me ! 

Vogelreuter.  Now  clear  out,  both  of  you.  [Trude  and  Marikke 
go  out.~]  Now  I  can  have  my  innings  with  you,  as  the  stork  said  to  the  angle- 
worm. 

....  George  [whose  eyes  had  followed  the  girls  out,  turning  around].  For 
all  I  care.  I  am  ready.  But  I  won't  let  you  swallow  me.  Take  care !  I 
am  hard  to  digest.  « 

Vogelreuter.     We  will  try  it,  all  the  same. 

George.  Exactly,  what  do  you  want  of  me?  I  have  a  good  position 
in  the  Construction  Department,  a  ten-year  contract  settled  with  the  magis- 
trate, pension-right  included,  can  become  city  officer,  —  I  wish  to  enjoy  the 
fruits  of       my       labors,  not       yours. 

Vogelreuter.     Indeed ! 

George.  Yes,  dear  uncle,  if  you  are  determined  to  make  a  settlement 
on  the  husband,  anyhow,  then  you'd  better  hunt  up  some  poor  lieutenant 
over  head  and  ears  in  debt.  That  sort  that  stand  around  in  the  Konigsgarten 
in  crowds,  and  don't  even  once  say  "Thank  you." 

Vogelreuter.     You  are  such  a  high-strung  coxcomb  — 

George.  Right !  I  am ! .  .  .  I  haven't  anything  else  in  the  world  but 
my  pride.  With  that  I  have  attained  everything  I  have  attempted  to  attain 
in  my  life. 

Vogelreuter  {betraying  his  pride  in  him].  And  a  little  industry  also, 
eh? 

George.     That  was  pride,  too  ! 

Vogelreuter.  You'd  like  best  of  all  to  stir  up  just  such  another  row 
as  you  did  twelve  years  ago. 

George.     If  necessary,  yes. 

Vogelreuter.     Was  it  necessary  then? 

George.  Was  it  necessary !  I  came  here  for  my  vacation  a  perfectly 
green  lad,  fresh  from  graduation,  and  you  declared  that  I  must  go  with  you 
to  Communion.  Now,  just  think !  That  was  a  luxury  my  conscience  would 
not  permit  me.  Then  you  said,  "  Very  well,  if  you  don't  obey,  I  will  cut 
off  your  money."  And  I  said,  "  Do  it  then." ...  So  it  all  went.  It's  no  joke 
to  go  hungry,  you  can  take  my  word  for  that;  still,  I  can  stand  before  you 
today  a  free  and  independent  man,  and  I  owe  that  to  the  consciousness  that 
I  have  always  gone  straight  ahead  in  my  own  way,  without  compromise  or 


28  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

deceit,  without  letting  anyone  have  a  chance  to  put  the  bit  between  m  \ 
teeth.  And  this  consciousness  of  my  independence  is  my  proudest  posses- 
sion.    I  draw  all  my  strength  from  it.     I  will  never  give  it  up. 

Vogelreuter.     Who  the  devil  wants  you  to? 

George.  Yes,  one  thing  more!  I  belong  to  your  house.  Destiny  has 
so  decreed.  Therefore  the  idea  never  entered  my  head  to  look  elsewhere 
for  a  wife.  I  feel  that  I  am  a  part  of  your  family.  Yet  it  could  only  have 
come  because,  ever  since  that  day,  I  have  been  inwardly,  inwardly, 
you  understand,  a  free  man,  uncle.  You  have,  indeed,  the  heart  of  a 
man,  but  you  have  a  heavy  hand.  I  will  not  come  under  your  heavy  hand 
again.  Therefore  I  will  accept  no  money  whatsoever  from  you.  Now  or 
ever. 

Vogelreuter.     Really,  then,  you  are  afraid  of  me? 

George.     I  —  afraid?     Bah! 

Vogelreuter.     You  are  a  coward  in  grain. 

George.     Now,  see  here !     I  forbid  that. 

Vogelreuter.     You      forbid!  In       my       house,  you  cub!      I 

am  master  here. 

George.     Now  see !     There  we  have  it ! 

Vogelreuter.  It  seems  it  doesn't  please  you  to  have  anyone  meddle 
with  you  or  keep  an  eye  over  your  affairs.    That  is  the  gist  of  it. 

George.     My  life  lies  open  to  anybody,  up  to  this  day. 

Vogelreuter.  But  perhaps  not  after  today,  eh?.  .  .Who  can 
say  what  you  have  in  mind  —  what  may  happen  over  night? 

George.     That  is  an  insult  which  I  — 

Vogelreuter  [putting  himself  in  front  of  him].  Well,  then,  well, 
come  on ! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter  [with  Marikke,  entering,  dressed  to  go  out~\. 
What  have  you  done  to  Trude,  Henry?  She  is  sitting  in  her  room  crying 
her  eyes  out. 

Vogelreuter.     Is  the  old  pastor's  eggnog  ready? 

Marikke.     It  is  brewed,  but  not  — 

Vogelreuter.  Let  her  alone,  then,  to  have  her  pout  out  first,  and  then 
she  can  bring  it  along  after  us  later. 

Marikke.     Yes,  papa. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Well,  Henry? 

Vogelreuter.     Why  now,  what  do  you  want? 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  29 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Are  we  ready  to  go  now? 

Vogelreuter.  Just  sit  down  by  the  door  out  there  and  wait  a  minute. 
We  have  something  to  settle  up  yet,  we  two. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Why !  What's  the  matter  with  George  ?  He  is 
so  — 

Vogelreuter.  I  have  been  taking  down  his  pride  a  little.  It  doesn't 
seem  to  suit  him. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter  [patting  George].  Patience,  George.  After  the 
wedding  you  can  laugh  at  both  of  us. 

Vogelreuter  [half  to  himself]..  We  will  see  about  that!  [Mrs. 
Vogelreuter  goes  out  with  Marikke.]  We  can't  sing  to  this  tune  any 
longer.  We  should  be  shooting  each  other  next.  So,  now  I  shall  have  to 
master      you,  my  son. 

George.     Indeed !     I  am  curious  to  know  how. 

Vogelreuter.  My  child  loves  you.  You  are  her  idol.  As  to  the 
marriage  itself  nothing  must  be  disturbed....  But  —  uh-uh-see  here! 
Where  do  you  get  your  right  to  this  cursed  pride  ? 

George.     Do  I  need  your  endorsement  for  it? —     Huh! 

Vogelreuter.  When  I  see  you  stamping  about  so,  clicking  your  heels 
together,  it  is  just  as  if  your  blessed  father  stood  there  before  me. 

George  [startled].  What  do  you  want  with  my  father?  He  has  been 
dead  these  twenty  years. 

Vogelreuter.  That  he  left  it  to  me  to  care  for  you  from  childhood,  — 
of  that  I  need  not  speak,  although  that  fact  alone  ought  to  be  reason  enough 
to  make  you  think  twice  before  you  try  to  domineer  over  me,  show  your 
teeth  in  this  way,  to  me,  but  —  uh  —  uh  — 

George.  Uncle,  do  what  you  like  with  me ;  but  leave  my  father  alone. 
Let  him  sleep  in  peace  ! 

Vogelreuter.  Yes,  and  he  can  sleep  in  peace,  I  think,  only  because  I 
took  care  of  that. 

George.     Do  you  —  ? 

Vogelreuter.  Yes,  I  say;  who  was  it  who  paid  up  his  debts  of  honor 
when  he  lay  dead  and  disgraced? 

George  [after  a  pause].  Uncle,  you  ought  not  to  have  told  me  that. 
[He  sinks  in  a  chair  and  covers  his  face  with  his  hands.] 

Vogelreuter.     Yes,  my  boy.  .  .  .      [He  starts  to  speak  and  wanders 


3o  SAINT  JOHN'S    I  IRE 

.silently  around  the  room.]  Sec  here!  [lie  lakes  a  cigar,  goes  to  light  it, 
breaks  it  and  throws  it  aiiay.] 

George.     Uncle,  you  ought  not  to  have  said  that. 

Vogelreuter.      I  leavens !  you  knew  it  before. 

George.  Yes,  I  knew  it.  Still  you  ought  not  to  have  said  it  again, 
now.  Twelve  years  ago,  when  you  raised  your  whip  and  I  reached  for  the 
bread-knife  — 

Vogelreuter.     I  ought  not  to  have  done  that. 

George.  No,  uncle,  you  should  not  have  taken  up  the  whip,  nor  I  that 
knife.  But  what  I  learned  of  you  then  for  the  first  time  —  is  the  real  reason 
why  I  will  never  accept  anything  from  you  again.  Now,  you  know.  From 
that  time  forth  I  was  resolved  to  work  till  I  wore  my  fingers  to  the  bone,  if 
only  I  might  be  free  from  you  at  last.  I  hated  you.  Oh,  God!  How 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  hated  you. 

Vogelreuter.     Simply  because  I  had  shielded  your  father's  honor? 

George  No !  Because  after  you  had  done  it,  you  made  use 
of  the  fact  as  a  weapon  to  humble  and  degrade  me.     That  was  less  noble. 

Vogelreuter.  My  boy,  a  man  takes  up  whatever  weapon  he  finds  at 
hand. 

George.  Even  if  it  is  the  butt-end  of  a  whip  !  Well,  I  am  as  weak  as 
a  child  again.  I  realize  that  I  have  no  right  to  any  pride  whatsoever.  My 
paternal  inheritance  does  not  permit  it.  Give  me  whatever  you  like.  I'll 
pocket  it. 

Vogelreuter.  No,  no.  I  will  take  no  advantage  of  you  in  this  mood. 
In  the  end  you  would  begin  to  hate  me  again. 

George.     Let  it  go,  uncle.     That's  over.     I  will  gulp  it  down.    Ugh ! 

Vogelreuter.     George ! 

Marikke  [entering].  Pardon  me,  papa !  But  mamma  sent  me  to  ask 
if  you  were  never  going  to  be  ready. 

Vogelreuter.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned  I  am  ready  now.  [Fumbles 
for  his  cap.]  Huh!  Now  he  sits  hunched  up  there  in  a  heap  of  grief. 
Give  him  some  brandy,  Marikke,  to  brace  up  his  bones.  .  .  .  [Goes  to  the 
door,  and  turns  back  again.]     George! 

George.     Uncle ! 

[Vogelreuter  reaches  out  his  hand  to  him.] 

George.     Of  course  I  cannot  refuse  your  hand.      [They  grasp  hands.] 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  31 

Vogelreuter.  And  your  heart,  too,  I'll  win,  you  L^^head!  {Lower 
as  he  goes  out.']      You  blamed  idiot! 

Marikke.     George,  what  did  he  say  to  you  ? 

George.  Don't  ask!  Don't  ask!  {Walks  up  and  down  the  room.'] 
For  this  have  I  struggled  hard  and  gone  sleepless,  with  but  one  aim  before 
me :  to  be  free,  to  be  free,  —  and  now  I  must  crawl,  I  must,  I  must  crawl. 
If  that  child  were  not  innocent  of  the  whole  thing  I  would  not  endure  such 
insults.     But  now,  I  am  under  the  yoke ! 

Marikke  {hesitatingly,  comfortingly'].  I  see  nothing  for  you  but  love 
in  this  house.     George,       your      yoke  here  is  very  light. 

George.     How  long  since  you  have  been  so  pious? 

Marikke.     I  am  not  pious. 

George.  What  was  that  you  said  before?  'I  am  the  "Unlucky 
Child,"  but  I  ask  no  favors ' .  .  .  I,  too,  am  an  '  Unlucky  Child.'  Only  / 
permit  myself  to  accept  all  they  give  me  —  all! 

Marikke.     You  —  an  '  unlucky  child '  —  you? 

George.  Faugh!  Was  I  not,  also,  left,  like  you,  to  be  picked  up? 
Do  I  not  belong  to  this  house  —  just  as  you  do  ?  Am  I  not  stifled  also  with 
their      charity,       just  as  you  are? 

Marikke.     I  accept  willingly  what  I       earn. 

George.     And  serve  willingly,  too. 

Marikke.     I  serve  willingly. 

George.     But  I  —  I  want  to  rule. 

Marikke.     And  you       shall       rule. 

George  {ironically].     Oh,  yes,  I  rule!      {Walks  to  and  fro.] 

Marikke.     George ! 

George.     Ha  ? 

Marikke.  Oh,  pardon  me  !  Now,  you  won't  want  to  think  any  more 
of  —  what  you  —  you  —  ? 

George.     Oh ! 

Marikke.  I  know  it  is  inexcusable  of  me.  When  you  are  so  absorbed 
in  your  own  affairs —      And  you  did  not  want  to  do  it  before. 

George.  But  now!  Ha-ha  ! .  .  .  .  Ha-ha-ha  !  I  go  my  own  gait. 
I  owe  no  one  any  allegiance  any  more.  I'll  do  it.  Now,  more  than  ever, 
I'll  do  it. 

Marikke.     Oh !     Thank  you,  George  !     Oh !     How  I  thank  you ! 


32  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

George*     D<>-.'t  thank  me  at  all. 

Mti?ikLe.'''"\Vhv\x-  is  she  now? 

George.     Behind  the  hedge  —  in  the  garden  —  waiting. 

Marikke.  Oh!  Don't  keep  her  waiting  any  longer.  Bring  her 
in  here ! 

George.     But  Trude  has  not  gone. 

Marikke.  I'll  see  that  she  does  go.  When  I  come  out  on  the  terrace, 
then  she  will  be  gone. 

George.  Marikke!  For  your  own  sake!  This  is  the  last  time.  I 
warn  you.      Misfortune  will  surely  follow  this. 

Marikke.     One  misfortune  more  or  less  in  the  world  matters  little. 

George.  Are  you  like  that,  too?  Then  I  am  quite  sure.  .  .  So  be  it! 
Now,  then,  we  shall  feel  the  pinch  of  reality.  [Reaches  for  his  hat.  Goes 
out  center.'] 

Marikke  [opening  the  door  to  the  left,  calls'].  Trude,  Trude  1  [A 
door  is  heard  to  shut.] 

Trade's  voice  [whimpering].     What  is  it? 

Marikke.      Come  quickly!      Papa  will  be  angry.      Come! 

Trade's  voice.  I  am  coming.  [After  a  few  seconds  she  appears  at 
the  door.] 

Marikke.  Why  darling!  What's  the  matter?  Your  eyes  are  quite 
red.     [Caressing  her.]     Why  do  you  cry  so  piteously? 

Trude.     Where  is  George? 

Marikke  [unconcernedly].  Oh!  perhaps  he  has  gone  out  in  the  fields 
again  ? 

Trude  [snuffling].     Didn't  even  say  good-bye  to  me! 

Marikke  [consolingly].  Had  heard  you  were  crying,  perhaps.  So  he 
would  not  disturb  you. 

Trude.     How  your  eyes  look !     Your  eyes  look  so  strange ! 

Marikke.  I  have  such  eyes  as  God  gave  me.  You  must  be  content 
with  them,  little  lamb. 

Trude  [mistrustfully].     Hm !     Hm !      [A  knock  on  the  door  at  the 

left-] 

Marikke.     Come  in. 

A  Maid  Servant  [with  a  basket].  Here  is  the  eggnog  for  the  old 
pastor!     There  are  a  couple  of  fresh  loaves  of  cake,  too.     Look  out  that 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  33 

you  don't  crush  them,  the  Housekeeper  said. 

Marikke.     Very  well.      [The  maid-servant  goes. ,] 

Trude.     Bye-bye,   Marikke. 

Marikke.     Bye-bye,  Trude. 

[TRUDE  takes  up  the  basket  and  goes  through  the  middle  door.~\ 

Marikke  [anxiously  watching  her].  Oh!  why  are  you  going  that 
way? 

Trude.  I  would  rather  go  through  the  garden  and  across  the  field. 
Then  perhaps  I'll  meet  George. 

Marikke.  But  you  must  not  cross  the  fields  alone.  Papa  has  for- 
bidden it. 

Trude.     But  perhaps  I'll  meet  George. 

Marikke.  But  if  you  don't  meet  him !  No,  no,  I  can't  allow  it. 
No.     I  will  not  allow  it  after  such  a  fright  as  I  had  last  night. 

Trude.     Marikke,  dear,  are  you  displeased  with  me? 

Marikke.     Darling!      [They  embrace  each  other  warmly  J\ 

Trude.  Well,  then,  I  will  go  this  way.  [Again  she  looks  through 
the  door  in  every  direction.]     Give  my  love  to  George. 

Marikke.      I  shall  probably  not  see  him. 

Trude.     No?.  .  .      Perhaps  you  will,  though. 

Marikke.     Then  I'll  give  him  your  love. 

Trude.     All  right!     [Goes  out  right.] 

[Marikke  hastens  out  on  the  terrace  and  motions  outside  towards  the 
garden,  then  locks  the  doors  right  and  left,  goes  again  to  the  middle  door, 
looking  back  long  and  anxiously,  draws  back  against  the  wall,  and  covers 
her  face  with  her  hands.] 

George  [entering  with  the  Old  Hag].  Marikke,  here  she  is!  [He 
withdraws  to  the  terrace,  where  he  stays  seated,  with  his  face  turned  to- 
ward the  garden.] 

The  Old  Hag.  Mine  little  lady,  mine  little  daughter.  .  .  Oh  ! .  .  .  Yea  ! 
.  .  .don't  be  afraid.  .  .Oh,  you  are  such  a  fine  lady.  .  .ah,  yes!.  .  .Hast 
bridegroom,  ah  —  yea?.  .  .You  marry?     I  have  heard  —  I! 

Marikke  [forcing  herself  to  speak].  No,  I  am  not  to  be  married.  It 
is  Trude,  my  foster-sister,  who  is  to  be  married. 

Old  Hag.  You  no  marry?  No?  Neverr  mind,  neverr  mind.  .  .You 
marry  soon.    Ah!     [Runs  her  hands  testingly  over  Marikke' s  dress.]   What 


34  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

a  fine  dress!  Ah ! .  .  .  wool  —  all  wool  dress,  oh-a-h ! . .  . [Noticing  Ma- 
rikke's  silk  apron."]  Jesu!  Szilka  szurdszellel  What  a  beautiful  silk 
apronl.  .  .eiksch!    All  silk!    Ah!    Give  me  silk  apron,  —  give  tnel 

Marikkc  [unties  her  apron  and  gives  it  to  her].    There! 

Old  Hag.  Zanks  mooch,  little  lady,  zanks  mooch!  [Kisses  her 
sleeves  and  skirt  and  starts  to  take  her  hand  to  kiss  that,  too.']  Doksch 
rank  a! 

Marikkc  [drawing  her  hand  away  in  terror].    No  .  .  .no  !  ne  dos  ranka. 

Old  Hag.  Nevarmind!  Alright!  Alright!  Are  fine  lady.  [Look- 
ing around.]      The  old  man  not  at  home?  —  Noa? 

Marikke.     No,  he  is  not  at  home. 

Old  Hag.  Dat  ees  good,  dat  ees  good.  .  .  .He  ees  a  deefil,  Vogel- 
reuter  ees.  All  Zgermans  are  deefils.  .  .But  eet  ees  fine  in  Zgerman's 
housah.  .  .like  a  Kieng's  house.  [Takes  hold  of  cover  of  center  table.] 
Ah  !  Fine  linen  cover.  Oh-ah,  Jesu  !  Ze  beautiful  linen  !  Ze  white  leenin  ! 
[Motioning.]  .  .Eiksch,  mano  merguze,  eiksch!     Come  here! 

Marikke  [coming  nearer].    What  do  you  want? 

Old  Hag.  Geef  mee  ah  drop !  Oh,  just  a  lettle,  lettlest  drop ! 
[Shows  how  little  with  thumb  and  forefinger.] 

Marikke.  Yes,  I  will  do  that  gladly.  [Goes  to  the  liquor  cabinet 
which  hangs  on  left  wall  and  fetches  a  bottle  and  glass.] 

Old  Hag  [meanwhile  thrusts  some  of  the  linen  pieces  which  are  lying 
near  the  sewing  table  under  her  apron  and  holds  them  in  place  afterwards 
with  her  left  hand  whilst  Marikke  fills  the  glass].  Zanka,  mine  lady! 
Art  a  good  lettle  daughter,  lady!  [Drinks  and  pats  her  stomach.]  Ah! 
that's  good.  Tatai  Skawnusf  Geev  mee.  .  .one  more,  ah! 
[Marikke  fills  her  glass  again.] 

Old  Hag.  Zanka  mooch!  [Drinks.]  Zanka  mooch.  .  .Now-ah 
must  be  going!  Yea-ah,  yea-ah !  [She  goes  back  and  lets  one  of  the  pieces 
of  linen  fall.] 

Marikke  [horror-stricken].  Moth  — !  Moth  —  I... What  are  you 
doing? 

Old  Hag.  Jesu!  [She  picks  it  up.]  I  found  eet  down  on-a  the  dry- 
ing-ground—  Yea-ah!     [She  sticks  it  under  her  arm.] 

Marikke.     Let  the  linen  alone !     It  does  not  belong  to  you. 

Old  Hag.     Nevarr  mind!        Alright!     Alright!      [Lays  it  down.] 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  35 

Marikke.     Give  me      all      you  have. 

Old  Hag.  I  haf  no  more  —  ah,  no!  Jesu!  —  no!  No  more!  No 
more ! 

Marikke  [goes  quickly  to  the  door] .     George ! .  .  .  George  ! 

George  [entering].     Marikke! 

Marikke.     Give  me  a  gold  piece. 

[George  gives  her  one.] 

Marikke.     Here!    Take  this!     Now  give  me  the  linen. 

Old  Hag.  Jesu!  a  ducat!  a  ducat,  a  golden  ducat.  [Takes  the 
rest  of  the  pieces  from  under  her  apron  and  lays  them  on  the  table.]  Imk, 
mano  mergusze!     Mine  lettle  mergusze! 

Marikke.     Go,  now,  go! 

Old  Hag.  Yea!  All  right  —  uh!  A  ducat!  Ankso  dakatele! 
Zanka  mooch!     [Throwing  kisses,  she  goes  out  through  the  middle  door.] 

Marikke  [takes  a  key  from  the  keyboard  and  gives  it  to  George]. 
Here,  take  this,  lock  the  garden  gate,  so  that  she  cannot  come  in  here  again. 
[The  Old  Hag  and  George  go  out.] 

Marikke  [stares  after  them  as  they  go  out,  then  turns  slowly  back,  leans 
on  table,  and  stares  into  vacancy.  A  knock  at  the  door  at  the  left;  she  calls 
mechanically.]     Come  in!     [The  door  is  shaken  violently.] 

[Voice  of  the  maid-servant.]     The  door  is  locked. 

[Marikke  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it.] 

Lena  [with  a  trayful  of  dishes] .  I  only  want  to  lay  the  table  for  sup- 
per. Help  me  a  little,  won't  you,  please,  miss,  with  the  tablecloth.  .  .Why! 
what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?    You  don't  hear  a  word  I  say. 

Marikke.     Set  them  down,  Lena;  I  will  do  it  myself. 

Lena.     As  you  please^  miss.     [Puts  the  plates  down  and  goes  out.] 

[Marikke  remains  standing,  motionless.] 

George  [re-entering].  There!  There!  Child,  that  had  to  be  gone 
through  with.  Be  yourself  again  —  this  won't  do.  .  .Marikke,  don't  stare 
so .  .  .  Better  cry  —  cry  yourself  out .  .  . 

Marikke.     Ah!    George!  [She  nestles  on  his  breast,  weeping.] 

George  [stroking  her  hair] .  Weep,  weep,  weep  !  I  know  how  it  hurts. 
It  hurt  me  so,  too,  once. 

Marikke.  Ah!  George!  Now  you  know  all;  now  I  have  no  one  in 
all  the  world  but  you  —  you  alone! 


S6  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

George.     Yes,  yes.  .  .  ,W«  two,  we  understand  each  other,  don't  we? 

We  two  —  we  belong  to  each  other. 
Marikke.     Oh,  Godl— Yes.  .  . 

George.  We  will  often  think  of  this  day.  It  has  brought  us  together. 
It  is  the  day  before  St.  John's  Night.     Will  you  remember  it? 

Marikke  [after  a  short  silence  frees  herself,  shy].     Go! 

George  [embarrassed].  Why  should  I?  —  all  at  once,  go  away,  Ma- 
rikke! 

Marikke.  George,  go  !  I  beg  you  —  I  —  must  lay  the  table  for  sup- 
per. —  Go! 

George.  Marikke,  you  said  yourself  you  had  no  one  but  me.  You 
need  a  human  soul. 

Marikke.      George,  if  you  do  not  want  to  despise  me,  go! 

George  [embarrassed].  How  could  I  despise  you.  .  .  .Well,  then,  I'll 
go.      [Hesitatingly  turning  back  in  the  doorway  again.      Goes  out.] 

[Marikke  breaks  dozvn  and  cries.] 

Curtain 

ACT  III 

The  same  scene.  Late  in  the  evening.  Over  the  center-table,  a 
lighted  hanging-lamp.  Another  lamp  on  the  table  at  the  left.  The  glass 
doors  leading  into  the  garden  are  open.      The  moonlight  falls  inside. 

Scene  I 

VOGELREUTER,  Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  and  Haffke  are  seated  around 
the  table  at  the  left,  Trude  and  George  at  the  center-table. 

Vogelreuter.  Now,  then !  Where  is  Marikke  all  this  time  with  the 
punch-bowl  ? 

Haffke.     What,  Mr.  Vogelreuter,  are  we  to  have  punch  now? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Of  course,  pastor.  This  is  St.  John's  Night.  The 
country  people  celebrate  it  by  lighting  bonfires,  and  we  by  drinking  punch. 

Vogelreuter  [with  mischief].  Perhaps  it  is  too  heathenish  a  festival 
for  a  clergyman? 

Haffke.  That  depends.  If  the  clergyman  were  not  invited  of  course 
it  would  be  heathenish, — 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  37 

Vogelreuter.     But  if  the  clergyman  joins  in,  then  it  is  Christian,  eh? 

Hafke.  Oh !  I  did  not  say  that.  Ask  the  Consistory.  Only 
the  Consistory  is  clever  enough  to  know  everything. 

Vogelreuter.  You  sly  fellow!....  [To  George  and  Trude.] 
Now,  then,  what  are  you  two  doing  over  there?  You  haven't  said  a  single 
word  this  evening. 

Trude.  George  is  too  lazy.  I  am  hard  at  work  writing  dinner-cards, 
while  he  is  drawing  little  men.  % 

Vogelreuter.      You'd  better  draw  little  women,  George. 

George.     Whatever  you  command,  uncle. 

Vogelreuter.  The  youngster  is  blue  today.  Come!  Be  jolly,  chil- 
dren. It's  St.  John's  Night.  There's  the  punch,  too.  [Marikke  enters 
with  a  salver  on  zvhich  are  a  punch-bowl  and  glasses.]  So  you  are  heard 
from  at  last,  gipsy.     Trude,  help  pass  the  glasses. 

Trude.     Yes,  papa ! 

Vogelreuter  [drinking].  Hah!  That's  good!  I  can  tell  you,  pastor, 
whoever  wins  her  will  always  swim  in  champagne. 

Trude  [with  a  glass,  behind  George,  zvho  has  gone  towards  the  right 
and  is  gazing  outside'].     George! George,  don't  you  want  some? 

George  [patting  her,  with  a  furtive  glance  toward  Marikke].  Yes, 
my  darling,  thank  you ! .  .  .  .  Just  see  how  glorious  the  moon  is  tonight ! 
It's  all  like  silver;  it  looks  as  if  the  whole  world  were  veiled  in  white  gos- 
samer.    Ah !  what  a  world ! 

Marikke  [embarrassed].     If  only  the  bonfires  would  blaze  up  now. 

Vogelreuter.  So  you  can  speak.  I  thought  you'd  lost  your  tongue. 
Come  here,  child !  But  first  klink !  Now!  Everybody  klink !  Then 
the  pastor  shall  give  us  a  toast,  a  Pagan  toast ! 

Haffke.     Nay,  nay! 

Vogelreuter.  See  here,  is  it  true  that  you're  going  to  slip  away  to 
Konigsberg  again  tonight? 

Marikke.     Why,  yes,  papa. 

Vogelreuter.     But  suppose  I  won't  allow  it,  —  how  then? 

Marikke.  But  I  asked  you,  papa,  a  fortnight  ago :  '  Can  I  go  a  few 
times  to  Konigsberg  to  arrange  things?'     You  said:     'Yes.' 

Vogelreuter.     But  not  at  night,  my  angel. 

Marikke.     But  I       must       go       tonight.       The  workmen  are 


38  SAINT  JOHN'S    FIRE 

ordered  to  be  there  at  seven  tomorrow  morning.  If  I  don't  go  tonight  the 
house  will  not  be  finished. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter,      Don't  bother,  Henry.      It  can't  be  helped  now. 

Vogelreuter.     But  look  at  the  child  ! 

Marikke.     Why,  papa?      I  am  quite  happy. 

Vogelreuter.      Then  laugh. 

Marikke  [constrainedly].      Ha  —  ha! 

Vogelreuter.      Indeed !      [JVhiningly].      Ha  —  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Come  here,  child!  Lean  down.  [She  looks  at 
her  examiningly  and  pals  her.']      You  slept  well,  last  night,  didn't  you? 

Marikke.     Yes,  mamma. 

Vogelreuter.     And  if  that  strange  fellow  annoys  you  again  ? 

Haffke.     What  happened?  —  if  I  may  ask. 

Vogelreuter.  Oh,  nothing  of  importance.  Nothing,  nothing!.... 
Then  you  want  to  take  the  one  o'clock  train? 

Marikke.     Yes,  papa. 

Vogelreuter.     But  there's  another  at  four.     At  least  it's  light  then. 

Marikke.     But  then  I  would  reach  town  too  late. 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  then !  Have  your  own  way.  You  wait  up, 
George,  and  take  her  to  the  station. 

Marikke  [startled].     George! 

George  [startled].     I? 

Vogelreuter.     How  now?     Why  not? 

Haffke.     Pray  let  me  put  myself  at  your  service,  if  I  am  not  too  bold. 

Vogelreuter.  Don't  trouble  yourself,  pastor.  You  at  least  are  not 
called  upon  for  this.  He  [motioning  towards  George]  ought  to  make 
himself  of  some  use  in  the  house. 

Trude.     Can't  I  go,  too,  papa?     Let  me!     I  love  to  walk  at  night. 

Vogelreuter.  You  don't  say  so !  And  walk  back  alone,  with  George, 
eh?  No,  my  precious,  engaged  couples  don't  go  walking  about  the  country 
so  late ;  they  always  have  to  have  a  chaperone  along. 

Marikke.  I  much  prefer  to  go  alone,  papa.  Really,  I  am  not  at  all 
afraid.     I  would  not  trouble  George.     Nor  any  one  else. 

Vogelreuter.  We  are  not  talking  about  any  one  else.  And  you  must 
not  go  alone.      [To  George.]      And  what  reason  have  you  against  going? 

George.     Oh,  Heavens!     A  very  particular  reason.     She  won't  have 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  39 

me.     You  heard  her. 

Vogelrenter.     You  two  seem  to  be  on  bad  terms  with  each  other  again. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  But  if  neither  of  them  want  to,  Henry,  don't  tor- 
ment them. 

Vogelreuter  [aside].  I'd  better  see  Plotz  first  about  that.  .  .  [Call- 
ing.'] Plotz!.  .  .  .  Now,  then,  your  health!  [Touches  glasses  with  the 
Pastor.] 

[Trude  and  Marikke  running  to  the  door  and  speaking  outside.] 

A  Female  Voice.     Mr.  Plotz!     Mr.  Plotz!     The  Master  wants  you. 

Plotz' s  Voice.     Very  well,  Mr.  Vogelreuter.      [Plotz  enters.] 

Vogelreuter.  Look  here,  Plotz.  Give  him  a  glass  of  punch,  Ma- 
rikke, if  he  has  not  had  too  much  already. 

Plotz  [apologetically].     Uh!     I  have  only  had  one  glass  of  beer. 

Vogelreuter.     Out  of  the  little  Plotz  private  cellar  —  eh? 

Plotz.     Lord,  sir!     The  Housekeeper  brought  it  to  me. 

Vogelreuter.  You  have  some  little  heart-breaking  affair  on  with  her 
now,  —  eh?     Some  kind  of  liquor  insurance,  heigh? 

Plotz.  Lord !  Now !  Mr.  Vogelreuter,  don't  make  me  blush  before 
the  young  ladies. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Never  mind,  Plotz,  you  know  he's  only  joking. 

Plotz  [to  Marikke,  who  brings  him  a  glass].  Thank  you,  very 
much,  my  little  lady. 

Vogelreuter  [aside].  Now,  look  here,  Plotz.  [Aloud  to  the  others.] 
Pray  don't  disturb  yourselves,  ladies  and  gentlemen !  Pastor,  be  thinking 
up  a  beautiful  toast.  [Aside  again  to  Plotz.]  Have  you  found  out  yet 
about  that  stranger? 

Plotz.  Not  a  blessed  thing,  Mr.  Vogelreuter.  Day  before  yesterday 
there  were  two  tramps  in  the  tavern  bar-room.  The  police  drove  them 
away  at  once,  and  there  hasn't  been  a  strange  louse  in  the  whole  village  since. 

Vogelreuter.  If  I  wouldn't  build  a  house  on  the  little  gipsy's  word.  .  . 
Child,  come  here  a  minute ! 

Marikke  [coming  up  to  him].     What  is  it,  papa? 

Vogelreuter  [looking  at  her,  sharply].     That  is  enough.    You  can  go. 

Plotz.  And  in  looking  around  about  this  I  ran  across  the  Old  Hag 
again. 

Vogelreuter.     Sh!     Not  so  loud!     Where  was  she? 


4o  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Plotz.     Sitting  in  the  bar-room,  with  money,  too. 

Vogehenter.     Where  did  she  steal  it? 

Plotz.  Who  knows?  The  tavern-keeper  says  it  was  a  gold  piece. — 
Be  quite  easy  about  her,  Mr.  Vogelreuter,  she'll  not  stop  pilfering.  So,  we 
can  soon  arrest  her. 

Vogelreuter.      Docs  she  sleep  at  the  tavern? 

Plotz.  Lord!  How  you  talk!  Nights  she  sleeps  along  the  road. 
Mornings  she  is  back  again  at  the  tavern. 

Vogelrcuter.     Hm !       That       is  reason  enough.     George! 

George.     Uncle ! 

Vogelrcuter.  I  have  been  thinking  this  thing  over.  You  must 
escort  Marikke,  whether  or  no. 

George.     Just  as  you  command. 

Vogelreuter  [to  Marikke].      And  see  that  you  two  don't  quarrel. 

Marikke  [in  an  expressionless  tone].     No,  no. 

Trude  [who  has  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace'].  There!  —  there!  — 
See !  The  first  bonfire  is  lighted  up !  [A  red  flame  flares  up.  Muffled 
singing  and  laughter  are  heard.] 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Did  you  take  good  care,  Plotz,  to  keep  them  far 
enough  from  the  farm  sheds? 

Plotz.     Certainly,  Mrs.  Vogelreuter. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Last  year  the  sparks  flew  'way  up  on  the  thatch- 
roof. 

Trude.  There  goes  the  second  fire,  and  look !  there's  another  on  the 
sand  dune.    Oh,  see,  George!     See,  how  beautiful! 

George.     Yes,  darling.     I  see! 

Trude  [drawing  him  forward,  aside].  Why  do  you  call  me  'darling' 
today? 

George.     Shall  I  not? 

Trude.     Oh,  yes,  always !     Do  you  love  me  more  than  ever,  today  ? 

George.     I  always  love  you  the  same. 

Trude  [softly,  blissfully].  You  used  to  say  'Little  One';  today  you 
say  '  Darling.' 

Vogelreuter.  Now?,  then,  my  dear  pastor,  take  up  your  glass  and  give 
us  your  toast. 

Haffke.      But  I  can't  promise  you  that  it  will  be  pagan. 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  4. 

Vogelrenter.  Ho !  Ho !  Old  fellow,  you  weaken.  The  Consistory 
weighs  on  your  stomach. 

Haffke.  Why,  you  know  how  good  a  Lithuanian  stomach  is !  But  let 
us  talk  in  earnest,  for  once.  [To  himself.]  Yes,  yes,  how  shall  I  say  that? 
[Aloud.]     Still,  I  will  not  ask  you  to  listen  to  a  sermon  now. 

Vogelreuter.     No,  don't !     Next  Sunday. 

Haffke.  But  you  see,  when,  on  a  summer's  night  like  this,  we  — 
dream  aloud,  —  may  I  not  say  dream? 

Vogelreuter.     Yes  !  you  may,  you  may.  —  Dream! 

Haffke.     For  we  all  do  dream,  young  and  old,  on  such  nights  as  these. 

Vogelreuter.     Eigh !     Yes  !     We  all  have  that  weakness. 

Haffke.  Then  in  our  courage,  you  know,  everything  lies  open  before 
us,  as  if  we  could  unriddle  all  riddles  and  bind  up  all  wounds,  make  pure 
goodness  out  of  meanness,  and  pure  happiness  out  of  mere  longing.  Ah. 
yes!  Then  what  is  it  in  our  hearts  which  so  stirs  and  moves  us?  Is  it  not 
that  wealth  of  love  laid  up  within  our  souls  and  filling  our  whole  being, 
which,  looks  at  closely,  is,  in  reality,  life  itself?  Am  I  not  right?.  .  .  .And 
now  I  pass  on  at  one  bound.  It  stands  written  in  our  Confession  of  Faith : 
God  is  love.  Now  what  if  God  is  this  love  which  dwells  within  us?  It  is 
a  fine  trait  in  our  religion  that  it  clothes  all  that  is  best  in  us  in  raiment 
befitting  the  dear  Father  above.  Can  I,  then,  this  evening,  when  our  hearts 
are  so  full,  pass  Him  by?  Ah!  Mr.  Vogelreuter,  whether  I  am  a  clergy- 
man or  not,  it  seems  to  me  that  all  worth  must  come  from  God  Himself, 
not  from  man.  Therefore,  with  the  best  intentions,  I  cannot  give  you  a 
pagan  toast. 

Vogelreuter  [pressing  his  hand].  Pastor,  you  have  said  well.  For- 
give me.     I  was  only  jesting. 

George.  No,  dear  uncle,  not  wholly.  I  must  defend  you  against  your- 
self. It  was  not  merely  out  of  bravado,  before,  that  so  pious  a  man  as  you 
are  wanted  to  hear  something  pagan.  So,  since  the  reverend  pastor  will 
not,  I  w  i  1 1  make  the  toast.  For  you  see,  pastor,  within  every  one  of  us 
a  spark  of  paganism  is  glowing.  It  has  outlasted  the  thousand  years  since 
the  old  Teutonic  times.  Once  a  year  it  flames  up  high  and  we  call  it  St. 
John's  Fire.  Once  a  year  comes  Free-night.  Yes,  truly,  Free-night.  Then 
the  witches,  laughing  scornfully,  ride  to  Blocksberg,  upon  the  mountain- 
top,  on  their  broomsticks,  the  same  broomsticks  with  which  at  other  times 


42  SAINT  JOHN'S   FIRK 

their  witchcraft  is  whipped  out  of  them,  —  then  the  whole  wild  company 
skims  along  the  forest  way,  —  and  then  the  wild  desires  awaken  in  our 
hearts  which  life  has  not  fulfilled,  and,  be  it  well  understood,  dare  not  ful- 
fill. So  it  is  with  the  social  law  now  governing  our  world,  and  from  whose 
grace  we  derive  our  being.  It  may  be  said  that  in  order  that  the  one 
desire  considered  essential  to  it  may  become  established,  a  thousand  other  de- 
sires had  to  go  miserably  to  wreck.  That  one  desire  was  held  in  view,  perhaps, 
because  it  was  so  unattainable.  The  other  desires  —  ah,  yes !  the  others  were 
lost  because  we  let  them  escape  us,  like  wild  Birds  of  Paradise  over  which 
our  hand  [with  gesture]  all  too  carelessly  closed.  Be  that  as  it  may,  for 
them,  also,  once  every  year  comes  Free-night,  and  then  do  you  know  what 
it  is  that  sparkles  out  there?  It  is  the  wandering  ghosts  of  our  murdered 
desires,  it  is  the  flaming  plumage  of  the  wild  Birds  of  Paradise  which  we 
ought  to  have  dared  to  hold  and  cherish  our  whole  life  long,  perhaps,  and 
which  have  flown  away  from  us,  —  it  is  the  elemental  Chaos,  it  is  —  the 
paganism  in  us.  And  however  happy  we  may  be  in  sunshine  and  according 
to  law,  tonight  is  St.  John's  night.  To  you,  ye  ancient  pagan  fires,  my  glass 
belongs.  Tonight  shall  ye  flame  high,  and  again  high,  and  yet  again,  — 
high  !.  .  .  .Will  no  one  drink  to  this  with  me?      [Silence.'] 

Marikke  [trembling].  I  will.  [She  touches  his  glass  with  hers,  gazing 
fixedly.] 

Trude  [anxiously].     I  too,  George. 

George.     Yes,  you  too.     [He  pats  her  tenderly,  pityingly.] 

Vogelreuter.  You  little  goose,  what  do  you  know  about  it?  I  didn't 
quite  understand  it  myself,  but  it  dawned  on  me  that  the  whole  screed  was 
sinful. 

Haffke.  My  dear  Mr.  von  Hartwig,  I  believe  that  even  over  your 
paganism  our  dear  Father  in  Heaven  keeps  watch.  Therefore,  with  an 
easy  conscience,  I  can  join  you  in  your  toast. 

Vogelreuter.  Huh!  Why,  then,  I  can,  too.  [They  clink  glasses.  A 
fire  near  by,  behind  the  trees,  flickers  up.  The  shrieks  and  yelling  sound 
louder.] 

Vogelreuter.     What's  that? 

Plotz.     Lord,  they  are  close  by  the  sheds  now. 

Vogelreuter.     Didn't  I  tell  you,  man,  to  keep  watch? 

Plotz.     I  did,   Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     They  had  three  old  tar-barrels; 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  43 

where  they  got  this  fourth,  I  don't  know.  They  must  have  stolen  the  axle 
grease. 

Vogelreuter.     Then  you  didn't  lock  it  up? 

Plotz.  Eigh!  On  St.  John's  night  that  wouldn't  do  any  good,  Mr. 
Vogelreuter;  wherever  they  smell  anything  to  burn  they'll  dig  their  way 
through  to  it.  If  you  should  treat  them  to  a  fat  ham,  they'd  sling  that  into 
the  fire. 

Vogelreuter.  Don't  stand  there  gabbling  such  cursed  nonsense.  Go 
see  about  it.     I'll  come  myself  in  a  minute,  —  quick  now ! 

Plotz.     All  right,  Mr.  Vogelreuter.      [Goes  out.~] 

Vogelreuter.  Such  a  slip-shod !  There's  no  dependence  on  any  one  ! 
My  cap!      [Marikke  fetches  it  to  him.'] 

Trade.     May  we  come  along,  daddy?    Oh,  please! 

Vogelreuter  [to  Mrs.  Vogelreuter].    Will  you  come,  too,  my  dear? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Yes,  with  pleasure.  But  now,  please  don't  scold 
at  them.     There  is  no  wind.     So  there's  no  danger. 

Vogelreuter.  But  I  shall  have  to  be  a  little  strict  with  the  louts.  Are 
you  coming,  pastor?  [Trude,  George,  Vogelreuter,  and  Mrs.  Vogel- 
reuter go  out.] 

Haffke.     Not  you,  Miss  Marikke? 

Marikke.     Thank  you,  pastor.     No. 

Haffke.     Then  let  me  remain  with  you  a  little  while. 

Voices  of  the  Others.     Pastor!      Pastor! 

Haffke  [calling  out].  Go  ahead.  I'll  come  in  a  minute.  .  .  .  Well, 
may  I  stay? 

Marikke.     Why,  yes,  if  it  gives  you  any  amusement. 

Haffke.  Amusement  is  scarcely  the  right  word,  Miss  Marikke.  Ah, 
yes,  what  I  wanted  to  say  was :  that  it  was  very  friendly  of  you  to  turn  to  me 
for  the  Bridal-wreath  Poem.  It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  do  it.  Did  it 
please  you? 

Marikke.     Oh,  thank  you.     Very  much. 

Haffke.     Do  you  know  it  by  heart  yet  ? 

Marikke.     I  think  so. 

Haffke.  Would  you  not  like  to  say  it  over  to  me?.  .  .  I  will  help 
you  a  little...  Come!....  [Prompting.]  'Flowers  are  a  maiden's 
peace-companions...'     Now?...      'They     softly     twine     themselves, — 


44  SAIN  I    JOHN'S  FIRE 

about?  —  her  spring-time  happiness.'     Tell  me  how  it  goes  on. 

Marikke.     No,  pastor. 

Haffke.      You  air  too  shy,  Miss  Marikke.      What  oppresses  you? 

Marikke.      The  St.  John's  Night  oppresses  me,  pastor. 

Haffke.       That  will  soon  be  over. 

Marikke.      Would  that  it  were  over  now  ! 

Haffke.      You  do  not  like  this  journey  alone  at  night? 

Marikke    [without    thinking].      Oh [Bethinking    herself]. 

No,  of  course;  but  it  doesn't  matter. 

Haffke.  Shall  I  go  with  you?  I  could  arrange  to  have  something  to 
call  me  to  Konigsberg.  I  do  not  even  need  to  ask  leave.  I  would  be  glad 
to  go  to  my  old  club  once  more.  One  soon  becomes  so  countrified  you  know. 
And  I  can  easily  speak  to  the  old  pastor  about  it.  He  wakens  anyhow7  when 
I  go  to  bed. 

Marikke.  Please  tell  the  old  gentleman,  —  usually  I  go  to  see  him 
for  a  while  every  day,  —  that  now,  before  the  wedding,  I  cannot.  Tell 
him  that  I  am  so  fond  of  him,  and  in  spirit  I  kiss  his  hand.  Tell  him  so,  — 
will  you? 

Haffke.  Certainly,  certainly....  And  how  about  my  going  with 
you? 

Marikke.     No,  no,  pastor.     Thank  you. 

Haffke.  Now,  may  I  speak  quite  frankly?  I  have  been  observing 
you  the  whole  evening.  Yes,  for  a  long  time.  You  seem  to  me  like  — 
howr  shall  I  express  it?  —  like  a  mouse  before  a  cat.  You  need  a  protector. 
Marikke,  you  need  some  one  in  whom  you  can  confide. 

Marikke.     And  so  you  would  like  to  be  my  father  confessor,  pastor? 

Haffke.  Now,  that  is  an  institution  we  Protestants  do  not  have, 
—  although  often  it  would  be  a  blessing. 

Marikke  [with  a  half-suppressed  smile].     And  often  not,  too. 

Haffke.  True.  We  ought  to  train  ourselves  to  self-dependence.  We 
should  settle  our  difficulties  ourselves. 

Marikke.      I  do  that,  pastor.      I  do  that. 

Haffke.  And  accordingly,  my  dear  Marikke,  —  I  don't  know  why  I 
call  you  'dear  Marikke,'  it  is  not  at  all  fitting  for  me,  pardon  me,  —  I 
would  like  to  say  frankly  to  you:  you  are  afraid  of  something,  afraid  — 

Marikke.      Of  the  cat? 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  45 

Haffke.     If  I  only  knew  of  what! 

Marikke.     But  what  if  I  were  the  cat,  —  and  some  one  else  the  mouse  ? 

Haffke.     That  would  be  very  bad  of  you. 

Marikke.     But  cannot  one  be  the  cat  and  the  mouse  both? 

Haffke  [pondering  on  it].  Yes,  one  can.  But  then  one  would  be 
playing  with  his  own  destruction. 

Marikke.     Whether  one  destroys  oneself  or  not,  who  cares? 

Haffke.     Dear  Miss  Marikke,  you  must  not  talk  so. 

Marikke.  Yes,  it  is  nonsense  —  all  nonsense.  But  what  does  it 
matter.  ..  .for  this  is  St.  John's  Night.  See  the  fire  yonder,  pastor, — 
they  had  to  put  that  out!  But  back  there  on  the  hill,  —  look  there!  — 
there Ah!  how  beautiful,  —  how  wild! 

Haffke.  But  when  you  come  close  up  to  it,  it  is  only  a  heap  of  dirty 
lumber. 

Marikke.     Oh!  — Oh! 

Haffke.     So  it  is  with  every  shining  thing  that  is  not  the  sun. 

Marikke.  You  should  not  say  that,  pastor,  you  should  not.  I  will 
not  have  it  so.  I  will  not  have  you  slander  my  St.  John's  Fire.  I  will 
have  my  joy  in  it.     Today.  .  .  .only  today.  .  .  .then  nevermore! 

Haffke  [moved].  Dear  Marikke,  I  don't  know  what  is  agitating  you. 
I  shall  not  ask.  Yet,  in  your  struggles,  —  you  shall  know  that  a  friend 
is  near  you,  on  whom  you  can  rely,  now  and  forever.  Marikke,  I  do  not 
know  how  to  express  myself.  But  I  would  like  to  shield  you  your  whole 
life  long.     Marikke,  I  would  ever  most  lovingly  guard  you.  .  . 

Marikke.     Pastor,  do  you  know  who  I  am? 

Haffke.     I  know,  I  know. 

Marikke.     And  who  my  mother  is? 

Haffke.     I  know  all ! ! 

Marikke.     Pastor,  how  am  I  to  understand  this  —  other  —  than — ? 

Haffke.  Marikke,  I  ought  not  to  have  said  this  so  soon.  I  ought  to 
let  it  grow  into  expression  slowly  and  quietly,  —  it  is  stupid  of  me,  I  know, 
.  .  .but  I  am  so  troubled  about  you,  —  I  am  so  troubled,  Marikke!  I  do 
not  know  who  may  meet  you  early  tomorrow  at  the  station  in  Konigsberg! 
.  .  .  Yet  you  ought  to  know  before  you  go.  You  ought  to  know  where  you 
belong  and  what  your  future  may  be. 

Marikke  [relieved,  almost  breathless].     Ah  —  ah  —  ah  — 


46  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Haffke.  I  do  not  wish  to  have  an  answer  now.  I  must  write  m\ 
father,  too.  Although  he  is  but  a  peasant,  he  must  not  feel  that  I  slight 
him,  —  Marikke  1 

Marikke  [drawing  back  —  indifferently].  That  may  —  really  —  be 
—  what  —  I  —  need!.  .  .  .      Oh!      Oh!     [She  sinks  into  a  chair.'] 

Haffke.  What  is  the  matter?  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  water  or 
wine  ?  — 

Marikke.  Wine!...  Wine!  There,  from  the  bowl ! .  .  [Haffkl 
brings  it  to  her.] 

Marikke.  Thank  you!  Why,  pastor,  do  you  know, —  [Drinks.] 
No  one  ever  waited  on  me  before. 

Haffke.     I  will  wait  upon  you  my  whole  life  long! 

Marikke.     But  no  one  must  know  this  before  the  wedding. 

Haffke.  Then,  after  the  wedding,  with  the  champagne,  perhaps,  papa 
might  stand  up  and  announce :  We  have  another  bridal  pair  with  us ! 
Would  not  that  come  in  well,  then,  Marikke? 

Marikke.  No,  no.  There  will  still  be  so  much  for  me  to  do  at  the  wed- 
ding. I'll  have  to  see  that  everything  goes  on  the  table  all  right,  and  that 
Trude  goes  away  all  right. 

Haffke.     Well,  then,  —  when  they  have  gone? 

Marikke  [ivith  a  mighty  effort].     Yes,  when  they  have  gone. 

Haffke  [grasping  her  hand].     I  thank  you,  Marikke,  —  I  — 

Marikke  [drawing  away  from  him].  Hush!  [Voices  are  heard 
outside.] 

Trude  [entering].  Oh!  Here  you  are,  pastor.  We  have  been 
looking  for  you  everywhere. 

Haffke.     I  will  come  at  once,  Miss  Trude. 

Trude.     Oh!     But  we  are  all  returning,  now. 

Haffke.  Why,  it  isn't  possible !  Well !  When  you  are  talking  you 
often  don't  realize  how  the  time  goes.     [Goes  out.] 

Marikke  [embracing  her  passionately].     Do  you  love  me,  darling? 

Trude  [half  to  herself].    I  have  been  quite  fond  of  you. 

Marikke.  Why  do  you  say  it  in  that  way  ?  I  have  done  everything,  — 
everything.     Now !     You  must  love  me,  too. 

Vogelreuter  [entering  with  the  others].  Yes,  yes,  my  dear  pastor, — 
one  does  what  one  can,  as  the  hound  said  to  the  hedgehog,  that  bit  his  snout 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  47 

till  it  bled.  So  you'd  better  take  a  drink  and  stop  apologizing,  or  your 
chances  will  only  grow  worse. 

Haffke.  Oh,  it  would  be  wiser  to  say  good-night  at  once,  you  know. 
Here  I'd  only  be  made  fun  of. 

Vogelrenter.     You  will  be  loved  in  time,  you  — 

Haffke.  Now,  do  you  think  I  don't  hope  so?  And  that  I  am  not 
elated  over  it?    Otherwise  I  would  soon  say  — 

Vogelreuter.     Huh !     Better  say  it. 

Haffke  [with  a  happy  look  at  Marikke]  .  Oh,  not  yet ! .  .  .  Good- 
night.    [Gives  his  hand  to  everybody. ] 

Vogelreuter  [to  himself].    Yes,  yes! 

Haffke.     Good-night,  Miss  Marikke. 

Marikke.     Good-night,  pastor.     [She  gives  him  her  hand.] 

Vogelreuter  [to  George,  who  has  taken  two  steps  forward  in  excite- 
ment].   Show  him  out,  George. 

George  [as  if  awakening].  Yes,  uncle.  [Haffke  goes  out  with 
George.] 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Yes,  indeed!  Now  we  shall  be  quite  deserted, 
Henry. 

Vogelreuter.  Eigh!  But  so  it  must  be,  old  lady....  Here  it  is! 
eleven  o'clock !     Away  then !  and  to  bed  with  you ! 

Trude.     Good-night,  daddy. 

Vogelreuter.  Night,  Curlylocks !  [Tenderly.]  Little  one,  —  little 
one ! 

Marikke.     Good-night. 

Vogelreuter.  Why,  yes,  to  be  sure,  you  too!  Child,  when  are  you 
coming  back  again? 

Marikke.     About  ten  tomorrow  morning,  papa. 

Vogelreuter.  And  now  be  sensible  —  do  you  hear?  Don't  exhaust 
yourself  unnecessarily  so  that  you  will  have  no  head  for  managing  the 
wedding.  .  . 

Marikke.     No,  no. 

Vogelreuter.     Kiss  me,  child!     [She  kisses  him.] 

George  [who  has  just  re-entered].  We  have  an  hour  and  a  quarter 
yet.     I  will  wait  for  you  here,  Marikke. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     You  can  keep  each  other  company,  children.    Then 


48  SAINT  JOHN'S   FIRE 

the  time  will  not  seem  so  long. 

Trude.     Oh,  let  me,  too  —  please! 

Vogelreuter.  Haven't  you  had  candy  enough  yet?  Now  go  to  bed 
and  to  sleep. 

Trude.     Well,  then,  good-night. 

Marikke  [haltingly].  I  can't  —  stay  down  here.  I  want  to  ask  you 
something,  mamma. 

George.      Come  down,  then,  when  it  is  train  time. 

Marikke.     Yes,  then  I  will  come. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Good-night,  George  ! 

George.     Good-night,  Auntie  1 

[Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  Marikke,  and  Trude  go  out.] 

Vogelreuter.     You  know  where  the  cigars  are? 

George.     Oh,  yes. 

Vogelreuter.  And  if  you  should  want  another  drink  after  that  sticky 
punch  I'll  leave  the  key  in  the  lock. 

George.     Thank  you ! 

Vogelreuter.  See  here,  boy,  how  long  are  you  going  to  keep  this  thing 
up? 

George.  What,  uncle?  Oh!  If  I  have  failed  in  all  due  respect,  pray 
excuse  me. 

Vogelreuter.  Pah  !  Respect !  Black  your  boots  with  respect !  I  de- 
spise respect,  —  damn  respect! 

George.     Why,  what  do  you  want? 

Vogelreuter.  See  here,  I  have  done  you  a  wrong,  perhaps.  Yes,  I 
suppose  I  have. 

George.     A  wrong  ?     You  ?     How  so  ? 

Vogelreuter.  See  here!  Are  you  asleep?  Have  you  forgotten  what 
passed  between  us  yesterday? 

George.     O-Oh!   dear  uncle,  all  that  seems  so  far  away  now. 

Vogelreuter.     Well,  time  goes  fast  with  you,  I  must  say. 

George.  Anyhow,  don't  let  your  hair  grow  white  over  it.  We  shall 
soon  learn  to  take  these  things  for  granted,  —  we  shall  soon —  [starts,  and 
listens  to  something  outside  the  door]. 

Vogelreuter.     What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

George.     I  thought  I  heard  someone  coming. 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  49 

Vogelr  enter.  Let  him  come,  then.  ..  .Huh! .  .Well,  if  everything's 
all  straight  between  us,  good-night,  my  son. 

George.     Good-night,  dear  uncle. 

Vogelreuter  [shaking  his  head].     Hm!     [Goes  out.] 

George  [sits  down  by  the  table  and  attempts  to  read.  Then  he  stops, 
listens,  and  goes  to  the  middle  door,  and  calls  out  into  the  garden].  Is  any- 
one there?    Answer!     [Softly.]     Is  it  you,  Marikke? 

Trude's  Voice  [fretfully].     No;  it  is  only  I. 

George.     Trude !     What  are  you  doing  there  ? 

Trude  [with  her  hair  loose  and  in  her  dressing-sacque,  enters  hesi- 
tatingly].   I  am  so  restless.    I  only  wanted  to  look  at  you  a  minute. 

George.     But  child,  if  papa  saw  you!     Go  to  your  room,  quick. 

Trude.     I  can't!     My  heart  is  so  heavy. 

George.     Why  so? 

Trude.     George,  do  you  know,  I  think,  I  am  not  good  enough  for  you. 

George.     What  —  what?    What  kind  of  nonsense  is  this? 

Trude.  I  am  too  stupid.  I  don't  know  how  to  talk  with  you.  I  am 
so  stupid. 

George.     Child !     Darling ! 

Trude.  Before,  in  the  garden,  —  when  it  was  such  beautiful  moon- 
light—  you  didn't  have  a  word  to  say  to  me. 

George.     But  mamma  was  there. 

Trude.  Even  if ...  .  George,  there  is  time  yet.  Wouldn't  you  rather 
have  someone  else? 

George.  For  God's  sake,  —  have  you  been  talking  about  this  to  any- 
one? 

Trude.  Yes,  to  papa.  He  gave  me  a  box  on  the  ear  and  told  me  to  go 
away;  that  I  had  an  attack  of  the  bridal-shyness. 

George  [smiling].  Hm,  hm ! .  .  .  .  And  now  I'll  tell  you  something, 
too,  my  treasure.  — 

Trude.      If  I  were  to  make  you  unhappy  I  would  rather  drown  myself. 

George.  In  the  first  place :  for  you  to  run  down  here  in  your  dressing- 
sacque  isn't  proper. 

Trude.     But  we  are  to  be  married  in  three  days. 

George.     Just  on  that  account ! .  .  .      How  lovely  your  hair  is  ! 

Trude  [blissful].     Do  you  like  it? 


so  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

George  {resuming  his  lecturing  tone"].  In  the  second  place:  I  shall 
not  have  any  one  else.  And  you  will  not  drown  yourself.  We  shall  be 
very  fond  of  each  other.  First,  you  will  be  my  playmate,  and  then,  per- 
haps, my  real  mate.      Is  that  all  right? 

Trude.     Yes. 

George.     And  now,  go  to  bed. 

Trude.  Then  I'll  wrap  myself  all  up  in  my  hair  and  remember  how 
you  said:  '  How  lovely  your  hair  is.'  And  so  I'll  fall  asleep.  .  .  .  Good- 
night. 

George.  Good-night.  [He  kisses  her  on  the  forehead.  TRUDE 
goes  out.  GEORGE  sits  down  again  in  his  place,  sighing,  and  broods,  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands.  Marikke  enters  softly.]  Marikke,  Marikke!  At 
last  you  have  come ! 

Marikke.     It  is  early,  isn't  it? 

George.     We  have  an  hour  yet,  —  about.  .  .  .      Are  they  all  asleep? 

Marikke.     Yes.     The  lights  were  out  everywhere. 

George.     Now,  come,  sit  down  here,  won't  you  ? 

Marikke.     I  don't  know.     I  —  I  think  I  will  go  up-stairs  again. 

George.  Oh !  Come,  come !  You  might  read  something.  I  am 
reading,  you  see. 

Marikke.  Well,  —  yes,  then.  [Sits  down.]  But,  George,  I  would 
really  prefer  to  go  to  the  railway  station  alone 

George  [tenderly].  Marikke!  [She  closes  her  eyes.~\  Are  you 
tired?  [She  shakes  her  head.]  For  a  whole  hour  of  life  I  have  you  all  to 
myself. 

Marikke.     George .  .  . 

George.     Marikke ! ! ! 

Marikke.     Are  the  St.  John's  fires  out  already? 

George.     Yes.     Why  not?     A  pile  of  wood  soon  burns. 

Marikke.  And  then  it  is  as  dark  as  ever.  Ah !  George,  how  beautifully 
you  spoke  this  evening !      I  have  never  heard  any  one  speak  like  that. 

George.     Ah !  you  were  the  only  one  who  understood. 

Marikke.  No  wonder.  It  was  as  though  I  had  spoken  your  words 
myself.     That  is,  of  course,  I  don't  mean  — 

George.     You  don't  mean?  — 

Marikke.     Oh !     You  know. 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  51 

George.     Ah !  but  I  don't  know. 

Marikke  [after  a  pause] .     George,  I  wish  to  confide  something  to  you. 

That,  really,  is  why  I  came  down-stairs You  shall  know  it.     You 

alone.  .  .      George,  I  have  this  day  given  my  hand. 

George.     Marikke ! 

Marikke.     Yes. 

George.     To  —  ? 

Marikke.     Why,  to  the  new  pastor To  whom  else?     There 

is  no  one  else.     Or  did  you  think  to  Plotz? 

George.     Why  have  you  done  this  ? 

Marikke  [astonished].     Why! 

George.     Why  have  you  done  this? 

Marikke.  I  have  my  life  before  me,  George.  George,  the  St.  John's 
fires  cannot  burn  forever. 

George.     You  should  not  do  this.     It  is  —  it  is  simply  — 

Marikke.     Sh!      Don't  shriek  so! 

George.     You  don't  love  him  at  all ! 

Marikke.     How  do  you  know? 

George.     How? —  .  .True! It  may  be  so.     Pardon  me,  of 

course  I  do  not  know  your  heart.     I  congratulate  you. 

Marikke.     And  I  thank  you. 

George.     But  why  do  you  tell  me  first?     Why  not  uncle,  or 

We  have  not  been  such  friends  as ...  . 

Marikke.     Have  we  not,  really?     I  thought.  .  . 

George.  So,  now  for  both  of  us  destiny  has  spoken.  You  have  your 
burden.  I  have  mine.  We  will  then  hereafter  have  nothing 
to  do  with  each  other.  Now  we  can  speak  of  the  past.  You  read  my 
diary.  You  even  perjured  yourself  about  it.  You  go  for  the  chief  matters 
and  don't  disturb  yourself  over  the  little  incidents.    I  wish  I  could  do  so,  too 

You  know  to  whom  I  wrote  my  verses.     We  know  the  truth  now. 

So,  now  I  ask  you  frankly:     Why  did  you  treat  me  so  pitilessly  in  those 
old  days?. . .  . 

Marikke.     Did  I,  George? 

George.  Well,  I  would  rather  not  go  over  all  that  old  record.  It 
seemed  as  if  you  intended  to  drive  me  mad.  Do  you  still  remember  how  I 
followed  you  into  the  milk  cellar  one  evening  and  how  you  ran  out  and 


SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

locked  the  door,  anil  kept  me  in  there  all  night?  Do  you  remember,  you 
rascal,  you? 

Marikke  [smiling],     I  remember! 

George.     Why  did  you  do       that? 

Marikke.  That  is  very  simple  indeed.  You  were  Mr.  von  Ilartwig 
ami  I,  a  Lithuanian  foundling, — worse  than  that.  If  you  follow  such  a 
one  into  the  cellar  she  knows,  or  at  least  thinks  she  knows,  your  purpose. 

George.  So  that  was  why.  And  at  that  same  time  you  went  under 
the  Manzanillo-tree  to  die?     [Marikke  nods.] 

George.  So  that  was  why.  And  you  never  thought  it  might  have 
been  another  way?  Trude  was  still  a  child  then.  And  only  because  I 
could  not  win  you,  did  I  afterward  take  her.  Did  that  never  occur 
to  you  ? 

Marikke.      How  could  I  ever  dare  to  think  so? 

George.     And  later  —  never  —  never,  never? 

Marikke.  Day  before  yesterday, — when  I  read  your  note-book,  I 
realized  it  first  then. 

George.     And  now  it  is  too  late. 

Marikke.     Yes,  now  it  is  too  late Ah,  George,  had  I  felt  then 

as  I  do  now,  I  would  not  have  resisted  you. 

George.     Marikke,  do  you  realize  what  you  are  saying? 

Marikke.  Oh  !  George,  I  don't  care  !  I  don't  care !  It's  fate.  You 
must  rule;  I  must  serve,  and  in  the  end  —  we  both  of  us  must  die. 

George.  Marikke,  you  must  be  loved  beyond  measure.  .  .past 
all  understanding! 

Marikke  [gesturing  towards  the  right~\.     He  loves  me. 

George.     Aegh,  he! 

Marikke.  Don't  storm,  George.  You  dare  not  love  me  your- 
self.    There  can  never  be      anything      more  between  us. 

George.  No.  Never.  No  dishonor  must  be  done  to  this  house. 
Not  by  me.  Nor  by  you.  We  would  choke  with  shame ....  But  can  I 
not  even  think  of  what  might  have  been.  .  .  .      That  is  not  sin,  is  it? 

Marikke.  How  did  you  say  it?  They  are  the  wild  birds  of  Paradise 
that  have  escaped  us.  Our  hands  closed  over  them  too  carelessly.  That 
was  it,  was  it  not?     How  beautiful  it  was  ! .  .  . 

George.     I  don't  remember.  .  .  . 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  53 

Marikke.  But,  George,  I  am  no  wild  bird.  I  am  tame,  quite 
tame 

George.     You  tame? 

Marikke.  To  you,  George,  only  to  you.  I  would  eat  out  of  your 
hand. 

George.  My  Gipsy  —  my  love!  [He  caresses  her  hair.]  No,  no, 
I  must  not  touch  you.  Trude  was  hidden  in  the  garden  just  a  little  while 
ago.     If  she  should  slip  down-stairs  again  —  for  God's  sake  ! 

Marikke.     What  did  she  want? 

George.     What  should  she  want  ? 

Marikke.     The  poor  little  thing !     You  will  love  her,  too,  George  ? 

George.  As  well  as  I  can.  But  then  I  must  not  think  of  you  in  the 
same  breath. 

Marikke.  And  you  must  not  think  of  me,  George.  And  I  shall  try 
not  to  think  of  you. 

George.     Never? 

Marikke.     Occasionally;  on  holidays, 

George.     Never  but  then  ? 

Marikke.     And  on  St.  John's  Night. 

George.     When  the  fires  are  burning,  — 

Marikke.     Yes.     And  when  the  fires  are  out  then  I  shall  cry. 

George.     Marikke!     [Starts  toward  her.~\ 

Marikke.  Sit  down  there,  George.  I  will  sit  here.  Someone  might 
be  in  the  garden,  after  all. 

George.     Oh,  they  are  all  asleep  now ! 

Marikke.     If  so  !    Still,  we  must  be  brave.    Oh  !  not  for  m  y  sake,  for 

yours.     For  me  it  makes  no  difference.     But  I  know  how  you  are If 

you  were  to  let  yourself  slip,  it  would  weigh  upon  you,  afterwards,  forever, 
—  and  on  me,  too. 

George.     Marikke,  why  do  you  say  that?    What  do  you  consider  me? 

Marikke.     Hard,  I  consider  you. 

George.     And  yet  you  love  me  ? 

Marikke.  Because  of  that  I  love  you.  .  .you  are  hard  because  you 
have  had  to  struggle  with  life.  I  have  had  to  struggle,  too,  but  I  only  en- 
tangle myself  and  everyone.  Ah!  If  you  only  knew!  If  you  only  knew! 
I  am  afraid  of  myself,  sometimes.     Sometimes  I  could  do  a  murder,  I  am 


54  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

so  without  peace. 

George.     You  would  have  been  at  peace  with  me. 

Marikke.     Ah  I 

George.  We  would  have  worked  together.  We  would  have  spun 
plans  together  half  the  night  through.     I  am  ambitious,  you  must  know. 

Marikke.  And  so  am  I !  For  you  I  am,  too !  You  should  be  the  first 
and  greatest,  and  all  should  bend  before  you.  I  myself  would  kneel  before 
you  and  say :  You  love  to  rule.  Now  rule  1 .  .  .  Now  command  ! ! !  [She 
kneels  before  him,  clasps  his  knees,  and  looks  up  at  him.] 

George.  Stand  up,  for  God's  sake,  stand  up.  There  is  certainly  some- 
one in  the  garden. 

Marikke  [rising].     I  don't  care!     I  don't  care! 

George.     Marikke. 

Marikke.  Yes,  you  are  right.  It  was  low  of  me.  .  .  .  But  who  springs 
whence  I  sprang  is  so  always. 

George.  Let  that  alone.  Forget  it.  Remember  only  this  house  and 
all  the  love  that  has  come  to  you  in  it. 

Marikke.  How  quiet  everything  is  in  the  house !  There  is  not  a 
sound  in  the  whole  world.     It  is  like  the  grave,  —  it  is  so  still. 

George.     Be  at  peace.     They  have  buried  us, ...  .  and  together ! 

Marikke.     Ah!     If  they  only  had! 

George.  And  see  how  the  moon  beams  out  over  the  garden !  There 
is  your  Manzanillo  tree. 

Marikke.     Yes,  yes,  do  you  see  it? 

George.  There  —  see  !  And  how  white  its  leaves  are  !  How  alive  they 
are !  Every  one  of  them  is  trembling,  although  not  a  breath  of  air  is  stir- 
ring. .  .  .Come  —  shall  we  go  out  there? 

Marikke  [shuddering'].  Oh!  No!  I  think  it  is  time  now.  .  .  .we 
must  — 

George.     Sh ! 

Marikke.     What  is  it  ? 

George.      Something   moving It    is    Trude    again.      [Calling.] 

Trude ! 

Marikke.     You  must  have  been  mistaken. 

George.  No,  no!  I  saw  a  shadow,  too.  .  .Trude!.  .  .  .Stay  here  a 
minute.     [He  goes  out  into  the  garden.] 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN 


55 


Marikke.  George,  George ! I  am  so  afraid ....  George !  [Af- 
ter a  while  George  comes  back,  much  agitated.]  Who  was  it?.  .  .George, 
who  was  it? 

George.     No  one  —  no  one 

Yes,  it  was  —  I  see  it  in  your  face. 
No. 

Then  it  was  papa. 
No  —  no! 
George,  you  are  as  white  as  death. 


Marikke. 

George. 

Marikke. 

George. 

Marikke. 


W  a  s  it  Trude  ? 


What  happened?    Tell 


me 


George.     Nothing  happened A  tramp  was  wandering  about  in 

the  garden  and  I  drove  him  out. 

Marikke.     What  sort  of  a  tramp? 
George  [tortured].     Oh!     don't  ask. 
Marikke  [dully,  without  expression], 
mother.    Yes,  yes !    I  see  it  in  your  face. 
George.     You  have  said  it. 

Marikke.     What  did  she  want?     But  do  I  need  to  ask! 
her  face  with  her  hands.]     Oh,  God!    Oh,  God!    Oh,  God! 
George.     Marikke ! 

I  am  so  afraid.  .  .  .Tight 
So,  so ! 
Marikke !     My  love ! 


Oh!     I  know.      It  was  my 


[Covering 


Put  the 


Marikke.     Close  the  shutters, 
crossbars  up.    So !    And  that,  too ! 
George  [pressing  her  to  him]. 
Marikke.     Hold  me  tight,  so. 
Yes! 

Yes,  yes.  .  .tight,  tight!     [She  presses  herself  upon  him.] 
-quite  still.     [He  kisses  her.] 

Now,  if  we  only  are  in  time.     [Puts  his  hand  to  his  watch 
Did  you  hear?     [ The  distant  whistle  of  a  locomotive 


George. 

Marikke. 
So  will  I  stay- 

George. 
pocket  —  amazed.] 
is  heard.] 

Marikke  [smiling] .    Yes ! 

George.     Was  it  the  train  ? 

Marikke.     It  was  the  train. 

George.     Can  you  hear  it  at  this  distance? 

Marikke.     At  night  you  can. 

George.     My  God!     What  shall  we  do  now? 


$6  SAINT  JOHN'S   FIRE 

Marikke,  I  will  tell  you:  \vc  will  stay  here,  quietly,  till  the  next 
train  —  till  four  o'clock. 

George.     Marikkel    My  love,  my  all !     [He  kisses  her. ~\ 

Marikke.  Ah!  Kiss  me  again  I  George,  do  you  understand  me  now  ? 
/  am  my  own  master.     I  care  nothing  for  myself.     This  is  St.  John's  Night. 

George.     The  fires  are  burnt  out. 

Marikke.     No,  no!     They  shall  burn.     They  shall  burn. 

George.     Yes,  they  shall  burn!     A  thousand  times,  yes,  yes,  yes! 

Marikke.  Don't  kiss  me  again  !  I  will  kiss  you.  I  will  take  all  upon 
myself,  all  —  all.     My  mother  is  a  thief!     And  so  am  I ! .  .  .George! 

ACT  IV 

The  same  scene.  Morning  light.  The  middle-table  is  decked  with 
flowers  and  gifts. 

Scene  I 

VoGELREUTER,  George,  and  Trude  are  to  be  seen  on  the  terrace 
through  the  glass  doors,  Mrs.  Vogelreuter  in  the  open  doorway.  They 
are  all  listening  to  an  invisible  male  quartette,  which  is  singing  during  the 
rise  of  the  curtain  the  last  bars  of  '  This  is  the  Day  of  the  Lord.'  The 
Housekeeper  comes  in  meanwhile  from  the  left,  also  listening  and  wiping 
the  tears  from  her  eyes.  When  the  song  is  ended,  Vogelreuter  begins 
to  talk  and  goes  with  George  and  Trude  down  the  steps. 

Housekeeper.  Now !  Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  dear,  can't  you  come  out  for 
a  minute? 

Airs.  Vogelreuter  [wiping  her  eyes] .     And  what  is  it  now? 

Housekeeper.  Well,  cry  yourself  out.  I  am  crying,  too.  \_A  faint 
ringing  of  bells  is  heard.] 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Now,  there  go  the  church  bells ! 

Housekeeper.  Eigh,  yes,  with  everything  so  touching!.  .  .  Indeed, 
one  must  be  made  of  stone  to  stand  it. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Are  there  wine  and  sandwiches  enough  in  the 
garden? 

Housekeeper.  My  Lord,  yes!  I  and  Miss  Marikke  spread  a  pile 
as  high  as  a  mountain. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Then,  what  do  you  want  now? 

Housekeeper.     Oh,  Lord!     Only  about  the  cooking.      Miss  Marikke 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  57 

thinks  we'd  better  half-roast  the  venison  a  bit  now,  so  it  can  be  heated  up 
afterward  for  dinner,  and  I  think:  naw,  naw!  —  it  doesn't  taste  so  good. 
And  Miss  Marikke  thinks  — 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Never  mind,  now,  —  I'll  come  soon. 

Housekeeper.  Just  one  other  thing,  then :  dear,  good  Mrs.  Vogel- 
reuter, dear,  do  send  that  child,  Miss  Marikke,  off  to  rest  a  bit.  She  has 
been  on  her  feet  since  two  o'clock  this  morning  early,  and  only  night  before 
last  she  came  all  the  way  from  Konigsberg.     A  horse  couldn't  stand  it. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Yes,  yes,  but  on  the  wedding-day  we  must  all 
expect  to  keep  hard  at  it. 

Housekeeper.  Why,  yes,  ma'am,  you  and  me,  we  are  only  a  couple  of 
old  women,  but  we  must  look  out  for  the  youngsters  a  little.  And  how 
often  we  snarl  at  them,  too ! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Well,  I'll  come  and  see. 

Housekeeper.  Eigh !  And  everything  so  touching  all  the  time ! 
[She  wipes  her  eyes.]      Eigh!     Eigh!  —  I  say  !      [Both  go  out  left.] 

Vogelreuter.  Huh!  At  last  the  morning  serenade  is  over.  First, 
the  Soldiers'  Club  and  the  Men's  Club,  then  the  Young  Women's  Club,  and 
now  the  Singing  Society.  It  is  cause  for  thanks  that  the  Men's  Club  and 
the  Young  Women's  Club  did  not  unite  in  a  mixed  chorus  or  next  year  we 
would  have  a  nursing  babies'  club  to  greet  us. 

Trude.     Oh,  papa ! 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  well!  Nobody  hit  you.  You  are  as  good  as 
married  now.  Say,  Curlylocks,  give  me  a  brandy.  My  stomach's  turned 
with  this  everlasting  port-wine  cooking. 

Trude.     Yes,  papa.      [Hurries  to  the  liquor  cabinet.] 

Vogelreuter  [to  George].  Well  now,  how  does  it  go  with  you? 
Everything  is  served  up  now  in  a  warm-tear  sauce  —  isn't  it? 

George.     Yes. 

Vogelreuter  [mimicking].  Yes.  ...  I  can't  make  you  out!  Some- 
thing is —     Well!     Have  a  drink! 

George.     Thank  you .  .  .      No. 

Vogelreuter.  Then  don't !  Here's  to  Curlylocks  !  [Seizes  a  lock  of 
her  hair.] 

Trude.     Here's  to  you,  papa ! 

Vogelreuter.     Huh!     We'll  soon  see  the  last  of  that  mop  of  hair. 


58  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Or  do  you  mean  to  go  to  the  Civil-Marriage  office  frizzled  like  a  poodle? 

Trade.  Why,  what  are  you  talking  about?  Marikke  is  going  to  do 
it  up  another  way.     We  have  tried  it  already. 

Vogelreuter  [rising].  The  carriage  will  he  here  at  half-past  nine, — 
do  you  hear? 

George.     Very  well  1 

Vogelreuter.  And  your  friend  from  Konigsberg,  shall  we  pick  him  up 
at  the  station? 

George.     Yes,  he  comes  by  the  9.45  train. 

Vogelreuter.  For  we  must  have  two  witnesses.  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
what  I  should  like?  [Tapping  George  on  the  breast.]  I  should  like  to 
peek  in  there. 

Trude.  Leave  him  alone,  papa.  He  is  my  George  now.  If  /  am 
satisfied  with  him.  — 

Vogelreuter.  Yes,  yes,  you're  right.  Who  gets  my  daughter  can 
laugh.  And  what's  more  he  shall  laugh,  too. —  Understand? 
[He  goes  out,  right. ~\ 

Trude.  You  needn't  laugh,  George,  if  you  don't  want  to.  Not  on 
my  account.  Just  hear  how  the  bells  are  ringing.  Quite  softly,  like  a 
song.     That  is  for  us ! 

George.     Why  for  us? 

Trude.  The  old  pastor  had  them  ring  once  for  us  especially,  the  as- 
sistant pastor  said.  In  the  morning  a  half  hour  and  again  in  the  afternoon 
for  the  going  to  church  and  the  ring-giving  ceremony. 

George.     Hm ! 

Trude.  Do  you  know,  George,  mamma  said  that  what  a  bride  dreams 
the  night  before  her  wedding  is  a  great  omen.     Do  you  believe  that? 

George  [abstractedly,  as  a  matter  of  course'].     Yes. 

Trude.  I  dreamed  of  a  great  field  of  golden  grain  where  a  poor 
little  hare  had  hidden  and  a  hawk  was  poised  high  in  the  air  right  over  him, 
looking  for  it,  and  then,  all  at  once,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  /  were  the  little  hare, 
and  I  kept  continually  crying,  —  George,  George!  And  then  the  hawk 
swooped  down  on  me.  —      Just  think ! 

George.     And  then?.  .  .  . 

Trude.  And  then  I  woke  up.  And  the  cold  sweat  stood  in  drops  on 
my  forehead.     You  would  not  let  it  happen,  would  you?     No  one  would 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  59 

dare  do  anything  to  me?  I  am  only  a  poor  frightened  little  hare,  am 
I  not? 

George  [staring  before  him'].     My  God! 

Trude.     George,  might  I  just  ask  you  something? 

George.     Hah  ? 

Trude.     You  don't  love  any  one  else? 

George  [disturbed].  Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  talking  that  way 
again,  child? 

Trude.  Well,  you  know,  if  a  bride,  at  least,  cannot  laugh  on  her 
wedding-day  then  it's  certain  that      she       loves  some  one  else. 

George.     That's  all  precious  nonsense,  little  one. 

Trude.     No,  George,  I  have  read  it  myself But  even  if  it 

were  true,  George,  listen:  I  love  you  so  that  I  could  do  anything  for  you. 
I  could  move  mountains.  You  will  soon  forget  her,  see  if  you  don't,  I  will 
love  you  so. 

George.     But,  child,  —  what? 

Trude.  No,  —  no,  you  see,  I  am  not  a  bit  angry  with  you.  How 
should  I  be?  I  am  of  no  consequence  compared  to  the  other,  —  the  one 
you  — ! .  .  .  .      George,  does  she  love  you,  too  ? 

George.     Who  ? 

Trude.     Oh    you    know But,  George,  be  quite  at  ease,  —  she 

will  soon  forget  it.  Robert,  our  former  apprentice,  was  ready  to  put  a 
bullet  through  his  head  when  he  could  not  get  me,  and  yet  he  has  forgotten 
me  already.  And  when  we  are  standing  today,  before  the  altar,  —  during 
the  Lord's  Prayer,  when  I  nudge  you  gently,  we  will  ask  the  dear  Lord  not 

to  make  it  hard  for  her.  .  .for  no  one  ought  to  be  unhappy  on  our 

Why,  George,  you  are  crying! 

George.     I?.  .  .  .      N-n  —  no.  .  .  .why  do  you  think  so? 

Trude.     Yes,  here  are  two  tears  —  there,  calm  yourself there, 

there  —  there  [wiping  them  from  his  face]. 

George.  Tell  me,  —  darling,  — what  if  we  should  have  to  part  after 
all? 

Trude.     How  could  that  ever  happen? 

George.     Well,.  .  .  .if  I  should  die  —  or  if 

Trude  [putting  her  arms  around  him].  Don't  talk  so  —  don't  — 
don't! 


Co  SAINT  JOHN'S  I  IRE 

[MARIKKE  enters  from  the  left,  remains  Handing  motionless  in  the 
door,  and  sees  the  embrace.  ] 

George  {becoming  aware  of  her,  stints].    Let  go! 

Trade.     ( )li !     It  is  only  Marikke. 

Marikke  [drawling].     How  affectionate  you  arc  today! 

Trade.  We  arc  always  affectionate.  What  harm  is  there  in 
that?     Perhaps  it  does  not  please  you? 

Marikke.     Oh!     It's  nothing  to  me. 

Trade  [in  jesting  reproaeh].  How  do  you  come  to  be  here,  anyhow? 
Haven't  you  anything  to  do  in  the  kitchen? 

Marikke.     Mamma  sent  me  away. 

Trude.  Oh,  then,  Marikke,  dear,  you  can  do  up  my  hair  now  for  the 
civil  marriage,  can't  you? 

Marikke.     Yes. 

Trude.     Have  you  some  hairpins? 

Marikke  [shakes  her  head].     I  will  get  some.     [She  almost  swoons.] 

Trude  [patting  her].  You  can't  at  all.  You  are  so  tired  out.  Indeed 
you  shan't. 

Marikke.     Oh  !     I  am  not  tired. 

Trude.     Well,  never  mind.     [She  goes  out  hastily.] 

Marikke  [anxiously].     Trude! 

George.     I  must  speak  with  you. 

Marikke.     Speak,  then  !     Here  I  am. 

George.  You  say  that  with  such  hostility.  Must  this  be  the 
end?     Is  it  all  over  between  us? 

Marikke.     Now  or  later  —  it  matters  little. 

George.     What  do  you  mean  by  '  later  '  ? 

Marikke.  Oh,  God !  George !  You  have  Trude.  Just  now  I  saw 
her  in  your  arms.    What  do  you  want  with  me  ? 

George.     I       must       speak  with  you. 

Marikke.     But  not  now.  .  .  . 

Trude  [re-entering].  Well,  here  are  the  hairpins.  [G'rces  them  to 
Marikke.]  I  brought  mamma's  combing  sacque  along  with  me,  too,  and 
a  comb.  .  .So  now,  George,  you  go  away.  Afterwards  you  can  see  if  it's  all 
right. 

George  [with  a  look  at  Marikke].     May  I  not  stay? 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  61 

Trude.  No,  no  !  You  will  be  sure  to  criticise,  and  that  will  embarrass 
Marikke.  Besides,  it  will  embarrass  me.  Be  good,  George,  and  go  into 
the  garden,  won't  you  ? 

George.     Yes,  yes  !     [Goes  out.'] 

Marikke.     Now,  put  it  on,  please.     [Holds  the  sacque  out  to  her.'] 

Trude.     Oh !     I'll  just  throw  it  around  my  shoulders. 

Marikke.     As  you  like.  .  .  .Will  you  have  the  knot  high  or  low? 

Trude.  But  Marikke !  We  decided  before  on  high.  Have  you 
completely  forgotten? 

Marikke.     Oh !     Pardon  me  !    Yes,  of  course.     Pardon  me  ! 

Trude.     Well,  there !     Give  me  a  kiss  ! 

[Marikke  with  a  sudden  movement  takes  her  head  in  both  hands  and 
gazes  at  her.] 

Trude  [troubled] .    You  look  at  me  so  —  so  strangely. 

[Marikke  fiercely  embraces  her.] 

Trude.     O-Oh !    You  hurt  me  ! 

Marikke  [smiling].     Perhaps  you  hurt  me,  too.  .  . 

Trude.     I  ?    How  so  ? 

Marikke  [who  has  begun  to  comb].  You  can  guess  how,  yourself. 
You  are  about  to  be  married,  and  I'm  not.     I  am  envious. 

Trude  [reaching  back,  pats  her].  Now  only  just  wait,  my  sweet! 
[Sings.]     Oh,  next  year,  oh,  next  year,  when  the  nightingale  sings! 

Marikke.     What  then  ? 

Trude  [singing  again].     Then  wilt  thou  the  wife  of  the  pastor  be. 

[Marikke  with  a  braid  in  her  hand,  bending  back,  breaks  out  into 
piercing  laughter.] 

Trude.  Ouch !  You  pull.  You  know  very  well  how  sensitive  I  am 
there  on  the  left. 

Marikke.  Come,  that  doesn't  matter!  Anyone  as  happy  as  you  are 
ought  to  endure  a  little  pain ....  There  !  we'll  braid  that  in ...  .  For  you 
are  happy,  aren't  you?     Very  happy? 

Trude.     Ah,  I  could  be I  should  like  to  be  !     But  he  is  so  sad. 

Marikke.     George  ? 

[Trude  nods.] 

Marikke.     Why  so? 

Trude.     Ah-h! 


62  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke  [watching].  Perhaps  you  were  right.  Perhaps  he  does  loi  e 
someone  else. 

Trude  [groaning softly],    Oh-h!    Why  do  you  say  that? 

Marikke.  Because,  —  no,  no,  no!  How  could  he?  That  was  hate- 
ful of  me,  —  wasn't  it?  He  could  not  possibly  have  it  in  his  heart  to  do  it. 
Not  when  he  looks  at  you. 

Trude.  And  yet,  and  yet,  and  yetl  I  have  often  said  so.  To  his 
face,  too. 

Marikke  [drawling].     And  what  did  he  say? 

Trude.     Nothing.     But  afterward  he  cried. 

Marikke  [triumphantly].  He  cried!  What  —  George!  Did  you 
ever  see  him  cry  before? 

Trude.     No  —  never ! 

Marikke  [to  herself].    He  cried! 

Trude.     And  afterward  he  said:  What  if  we  were  to  part,  after  all ! 

Marikke.     Who?  —  You  and  he? 

Trude.     Yes.    If  perhaps  he  should  die. 

Marikke.  If  he  — so  he  said  that [With  feigned  light- 
ness.]    Oh,  he  was  only  talking! 

Trude.  Of  course.  About  that  he  was  only  talking.  But  that 
about  the  other  one !  I  acted  as  if  I  made  nothing  of  it,  but,  at  the  time,  I 
felt  so  !  And  now  when  I  think  about  it!  Oh,  God,  oh,  God,  oh, 
God!     If  that  were  so,  if  I  knew  it! ! ! 

Marikke.     Of  course  he  would  not  tell       you. 

Trude.     Whom  else,  do  you  think? 

Marikke.     Anyone,  sooner  than  you. 

Trude.     Yes,  that's  so. 

Marikke.     Shall  I  ask  him? 

Trude.     Oh!     If  you  would  do  that,  Marikke,  if  you  would  — 

Marikke.  Now  then,  it  is  done.  Here,  take  the  comb,  quick !  And 
these  hairpins !    Now  go ! 

Trude.     And  you  really  think  he  will  tell  you  ? 

Marikke.     I  am  sure  he  will. 

Trude.     Oh,  Marikke!     How  can  I  ever  thank  you,  how  — 

Marikke.  Go,  go !  [Pushes  her  to  the  door.  Alone,  she  rocks  her- 
self back  and  forth.]     Ah,  ah,  ah!      [Calling.]      George!      [A  knock.] 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  63 

Come  in. 

Plotz  [entering  from  the  right].  Ah!  Miss  Marikke!  The  master 
is  probably  not  at  home? 

Marikke.     No,  Plotz. 

Plotz.     The  assistant  pastor  wants  to  see  him.     Here  he  is,  himself. 

Haffke.     Good-morning,  Miss  Marikke. 

Marikke.     Good-morning.      [Reaches  him  her  hand  hesitatingly.'] 

Haffke.     I  will  wait  here,  Mr.  Plotz. 

Plotz.  Very  well,  sir.  Oh,  please,  Miss  Marikke,  give  me  the  key 
to  the  cellar.  The  Bavarian  beer  will  be  here  soon  and  I  want  to  put  it 
right  on  the  ice. 

Marikke  [taking  down  a  key  from  the  keyboard].     Here  it  is. 

Plotz.     Thank  you.     [Goes  out.] 

Haffke.     Now,  haven't  you  one  word  to  say  to  me? 

Marikke.     What  should  I  say,  pastor? 

Haffke.     Are  you  not  happier  today? 

Marikke.     No ! 

Haffke.     Not  now  that  we  are  going  to  be  betrothed? 

Marikke.     We  shall  not  be  betrothed,  pastor! 

Haffke  [dismayed].     What! 

Marikke.     I  shall  leave  this  place.  .  . 

Haffke.     Ah  — oh! 

Marikke.     I  shall  leave  this  house  today. 

Haffke.     Pray  pardon  me,  but  have  I  forced  my  attentions  on  you? 

Marikke.     No,  you  have  not. 

Haffke.     Have  I  meant  well  by  you,  or  not? 

Marikke.     Well,  pastor.     I  thank  you,  but  — 

Haffke.  So,  then,  I  am  not  to  blame  that  you  are  turning  your  back 
upon  this  house? 

Marikke.     Certainly  not ! 

Haffke.     Does  any  one  know  of  this? 

Marikke.     No  one. 

Haffke.     Oh,  oh! Miss  Marikke,  I  am  still  a  young  man. 

If  I  were  to  take  upon  my  lips  such  a  word  as  life-happiness  it  would  sound 
absurd,  perhaps.  I'll  forbear  any  mention  of  myself  therefore.  I  shall 
strive  to  be  ready  to  meet  this  blow  and  make  the  best  of  it.     So,  when  I 


64  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

say  to  you,  Marikke,  do  you  clearly  realize  what  you  owe  the  parents  of 
this  house,  1  do  not  say  it  for  my  own  sake  or  for  theirs,  but  solely  for 
your  sake.  .  .  .  Of  course  I  am  only  human  myself,  and  my  heart  must 
—  quiver — a  little  —  hut  aside  from  that  —  Marikke,  if  you  cause  dis- 
cord in  this  house,  it  will  hurt  you,  not  this  house,  but  you  ! 

"Marikke.      Perhaps. 

Haffke.  Permit  me  further.  I  don't  ask  you  anything.  I  don't  wish 
to  know  anything.  One  is  always  in  the  best  position  in  that  way.  If  I 
did  not  love  you  as  myself  I  would  not  say  one  more  word  to  you  now. 
But  I  do  say  one  word  more  to  you,  one  which  —  by  God  —  I  have  never 
said  before,  save  in  my  own  heart.  The  best,  the  most  precious  possession  a 
man  has  is  his  life's  melody.  A  certain  melody  ever  in  accord  with  him,  ever 
singing  in  his  soul,  in  wakefulness  or  in  dream,  loud  or  faint,  within  him 
or  outside.  Others  say:  his  nature  is  so  or  so,  his  character  is  so  or  so; 
but  he  only  smiles  to  himself,  since  his  melody  is  known  to  himself  alone. 
You  see,  you  have  shattered  my  life's-happiness  today,  but  you  cannot  jar 
my  life's-melody.  That  is  undisturbed  and  will  remain  so.  But,  Marikke, 
dear  Marikke,  if  you  fill  with  sorrow  this  house,  wrhich  you  have  to  thank 
for  everything  you  possess,  if  you  sin  against  your  father  and  mother  — 

Marikke.  — My  father  and  mother?  What  do  you  know  about 
them,  pastor?  My  father  I  don't  know  myself.  But  my  mother.  Oh! 
yes,  I  know  her.  From  her  I  have  inherited  my  life's  melody.  And  a 
text  goes  with  it,  too,  a  beautiful  text.  Do  you  know  what  that  is?  Thou 
shalt  STEAL.  .  .steal  thy  life's  happiness,  thy  love  —  all  —  all.  Thou 
shalt  steal.  Only  others  will  enjoy  it  in  the  end.  Oh,  yes,  pastor,  my 
mother  is  a  thief.  On  St.  John's  Night  she  climbed  stealthily  in  over 
yonder  fence.  And  as  my  mother  is,  so  am  I.  And  now,  pastor,  don't  you 
say  one  word  more.  I  need  all  my  strength  today.  For  my  whole  fate, 
my  entire  happiness,  is  at  stake  today.     There.     Now  you  know  ! 

Haffke.  Yes,  now  I  know.  Farewell,  Marikke.  Perhaps  I  shall 
recover  from  this  day.  .  .      You.  .  .never  will.      [Goes  out.] 

Trude  [standing  at  the  left  in  the  door].     Was  that  George? 

Marikke.     Were  you  standing  by  the  door? 

Trude.     Oh !  for  shame. 

Marikke.  Go!  Go!  and  dress  yourself.  I  will  call  George  now. 
Go! 


*  HERMANN  SUDERMANN  65 

Trude.     Then  you  will  tell  me,  won't  you  ? 

Marikke.  Yes,  yes.  [Trude  goes  out.  Marikke  calls  out  into 
the  garden,  more  softly  than  before.']      George !  —     George ! 

George  [from  the  terrace].     Are  you  alone? 

Marikke  [nods.] 

George.     Ah !     So  you  have  arranged  it. 

Marikke.     You  wished  to  speak  with  me.     So  I  have  arranged  it. 

George.  Marikke,  if  I  should  sa,y  to  you  I  am  free  for  one  more 
hour,  I  still  have  a  right  to  decide  for  myself,  I  can  yet  carve  out  my  own 
destiny,  what  would  you  answer  me? 

Marikke.     How  can  I  answer  you  ?     I  don't  know  what  you  want. 

George.  If  it  depends  upon  my  will  I  want  you.  You,  who  belong 
to  me  for  life,  I  want      you. 

Marikke  [softly,  happily].  I  thought  the  fires  were  out,  and  you  had 
forgotten  me,  and  now  you  want  me  ? 

George  [softly] .  Are  you  not  my  wife?  In  the  sight  of  God  are  you 
not  my  wife? 

Marikke.     Yes,  but  in  the  sight  of  man  Trude  is. 

George.     Do  you  believe  that? 

Marikke  [unbelieving].     Go,  go!     You  love  Trude ! 

George.  Yes,  I  love  the  child.  How  should  I  not?  Don't  you 
love  her? 

Marikke.  I  don't  know.  Since  I  saw  her  in  your  arms .  .  .  George  ! 
You  wept,  too,  only  because  you  love  her.  Oh,  yes !  And  how  /  bear  it, 
how  I  —  how  I  —  o-oh!....  But  that,  thank  God!  concerns  no  one 
but  me. 

George.  Not  me,  Marikke?  You  might  do  better  than  torture  me 
so.  I  have  tried  to  be  an  honorable  man  my  whole  life  long.  If  I  cannot 
be !     At  least  there  are  bullets  in  the  world. 

Marikke.     Do  you  want  to  die? 

George.     No ;  I  do  not  want  to,  —  I      must! 

Marikke.  Oh,  George,  then  take  me  with  you.  [George  shakes  his 
head.] 

Marikke.  Ah !  for  years  I  have  carried  the  wish  in  my  heart  to  kill 
you ...  to  kiss  you .  .  .  and  love  you,  and  follow  you  out  of  the  world .  .  .  out 
of  the  world  into  eternity. 


66  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

George.  Oh,  child.  Stop,  stop.  Do  you  not  sec  how  we  go  'rouinl 
and  'round  in  this  world  in  a  circle,  as  in  a  merry-go-round,  continually. 
dizzily  'round  and  'round,  and  can  find  no  way  out  at  last  but  death? 

Marikke.     Oh !    I  would  gladly  die,  but  far  more  gladly  live  with  you. 

George.  Listen,  my  love,  to  live  would  require  far  more  courage  for 
both  of  us  than  to  die. 

Marikke.     How  so  ? 

George.  Can  you  ask  that?  This  house  that  has  reared  and  nour- 
ished us  both  from  childhood,  that  has  given  us  nurture  and  understanding 
and  love.  .  .  Can  we  raze  this  house  to  the  ground  and  still  be  happy? 
Have  you  the  courage  to  do  that? 

Marikke.  Our  dear  old  pastor  used  to  say :  '  You  must  have  courage 
to  do  everything  except  wrong.'      I  have  courage  to  do  wrong. 

George.     Shall  I  put  you  to  the  test? 

Marikke.  If  you  give  me  your  hand  now  and  say  to  me :  Come,  we 
will  run  away  out  through  yonder  garden  gate,  just  as  we  are  now,  this  very 
minute,  you  shall  see  how  I  will  run ! 

George.  What,  secretly?...  Without  their  knowing?.  ..  do  you 
mean  that? 

Marikke.     Don't  you? 

George  [with  a  hard  laugh] .      No. 

Marikke.     N-n-     How  else? 

George.  Face  to  face !  H  e  standing  here,  —  I  here.  If  he  will 
release  me  —  well.      [Suppressed.]      If  he  will  not  —  still  well. 

Marikke.  Oh,  God !  Oh,  God !  You  know  well  enough  how  he  is 
when  rage  seizes  him.  He  will  kill  us!  Mark  my  word.  He  will  kill 
us  both ! 

George.     It's  death  either  way. 

Marikke.     George,  think! 

George.  I  have  thought  for  two  nights.  It's  madness  one 
way,  it's  madness  the  other.  Hah!  it's  all  the  same.  [Bitterly.]  Only 
that  child  makes  me  sad. 

Marikke.     Ah !     Trude ! 

George.     Then  you  will? 

[Marikke  nods.] 

George.  This  i  s  for  life  or  death.  You  will  have  courage  to 
stand  by  me? 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  67 

Marikke  [dismayed].    When  you  tell  him,  I  must  — 

George.  What  ?  You  would  share  all  of  life  with  me,  —  all  the  self- 
reproaches —  all  the  burdens  —  and  now,  in  this  hour,  which  under  the  cir- 
cumstances is  far  from  the  worst  of  all  the  hours  in  store  for  us  throughout 
the  years  to  come  —  and  now  in  this  hour  you  will  desert  me? 

Marikke.  No,  no,  George  !  Not  that;  not  that.  But  we  have  dreaded 
and  shrunk  before  him  all  our  lives,  and 

George.     If  you  cannot  even  do  that ! 

Marikke.     If  it  must  be.    Yes,  I  will ! 

George.  Then  be  ready.  .  .  .as  soon  as  he  returns.  [Vogelreuter's 
voice  is  heard  at  the  right.     George  breathes  heavily.]     There  he  is. 

Vogelreuter  [entering].  Indeed,  it  is  a  pure  Bible  miracle !  Just  listen 
to  this  once,  children Isn't  Trude  here  ?     Where  is  Trude,  I  say 

Marikke  [trembling].     She  is  probably  dressing,  papa. 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  this  interests  you,  too,  to  a  certain  extent.  Just 
now  I  met  our  Haffke  as  he  came  out  of  the  house  and  he  tells  me,  quite  upset, 
how  the  old  pastor  has  got  up  all  at  once  and  hobbles  around  the  room  and 

declares  he  will  himself  perform  the  ceremony —     Nuh? Does  that 

make  no  impression  on  you  ?    Are  you  not  glad  ? 

George.     Hm.  .  .  . 

Vogelreuter.  Nuh,  yes !  You  are  a  heathen  —  of  course,  you.  But 
our  little  Haffke  must  have  set  his  heart  on  making  the  discourse.  He  was 
positively  chalky.     Quite  cut  up.     Of  course  it  can't  be  helped. 

George.  Excuse  me,  uncle,  lest  we  lose  our  opportunity.  I  would 
like  to  ask  you  for  an  interview. 

Vogelreuter.     What!     Won't  it  keep  till  noon? 

George.     No.     And      before      the  civil  marriage,  if  I  may  ask. 

Vogelreuter  [startled].    Ha? [Quieting  himself,  laughing.] 

You  want  to  screw  out  a  little  higher  settlement,  eh? [To  Ma- 
rikke.]    Now  then,  arrange  to [Plotz  enters.] 

Vogelreuter.     What  do  you  want? 

[Plotz  makes  a  sign  to  him.] 

Vogelreuter.     See  him  blink,  like  a  sick  hen !    You  can  talk,  can't  you  ? 

Plotz.     I  have  something  to  say  to  you  in  private. 

Vogelreuter.  Uh!  If  you  have  something  to  say  to  me  in  private, 
you  blockhead,  come  here. 


68  SAINT  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Pldiz.     I  have  just  arrested  the  OKI  I  [ag. 

Vogelr enter.  The — ?  [Casts  a  side  glance  at  MARIKKE.  PLOT2 
nods.] 

Vogelrcutcr.  You,  Marikkc,  may  stay  here  a  while  and  talk  with 
George.    He  is  a  very  interesting  young  man.     [J side  to  PLOTZ.]     Where? 

Plotz.  Down  in  the  cellar.  When  I  went  to  put  the  beer  on  the  ice, 
there  she  stood  in  a  corner  quite  weighed  down  with  booty. 

Vogelreutcr.     Is  she  down  there  now? 

Plotz.     Oh,  yes.     She  fought  like  the  devil. 

Vogclreuter.     Now   if   we    imprison    her   we'll   be    free   of    her   for 

a  few  years But  how  can  we  get  her  through  the  house  without  a 

rumpus  ? 

Plotz.     We'll  manage  that.    We'll  stop  her  mouth. 

Vogelreuter.  Then  I'll  take  out  a  warrant  at  once,  and  hand  her  over 
to  the  police Children,  I  am  called  away  —  will  be  back  directly. 

George.     You  will  not  forget,  dear  uncle? 

Vogelreuter.     No,  no,  I  just  said  I'd  be  back  directly.  — Come,  Plotz. 

[Vogelreuter  and  Plotz  go  out.] 

George.     How  you  tremble  ! 

Marikke.     I  am  not  trembling. 

George.     Marikke,  I  am  beside  you.     No  harm  shall  come  to  you ! 

Marikke.     Ah,  because  you  are .  .  .  ! 

George.     Because  ? 

Marikke.  It  has  all  suddenly  come  over  me.  .  .  [Starting.']  Is  he 
back  already  ?  [  The  sound  of  pushing  and  stamping  and  the  half-smothered 
screaming  of  a  woman's  voice  are  heard  from  the  right.] 

George.     What  can  that  be  ? 

Marikke.     For  God's  sake  —  hush! 

Voice  of  the  Old  Hag  [calling  for  help].  Mine  daughter!  Mine 
lady  —  Marikke  —  mine  Marikke! 

Marikke.     Hark ! .  .  .  Hark ! .  .  .  My  mother ....  They  are  carrying  my 

mother  off  now Hush!     Hush!  —  Don't  open  the  door! Be 

quiet!     Be  quiet!     [Outside  renewed  half-smothered  screaming.] 

George.     Will  you  not  go  out?    Whatever  she  has  done,  if  you  — 

Marikke.     How  can  I?     .  .  .  .  I.  .  .  .  I  am.  .  .  .afraid! 

George.     Then  shall  I? 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  69 

Marikke.     No,  stay  here.  .  .don't  leave  me.     Sh!     Keep  quiet.  .  .  . 

quiet! So  —  they   have   gone   now!      Thank   God!      [Starting   up.] 

Listen  !     Listen  ! [Again  a  faint,  far-away  screaming.]      Let  her 

weep!     Let  her  shriek!     I  cannot  help  her I  am  a  thief  the  same  as 

she I,  too,  have  broken  into  this  house.     I  have  stolen.  .  .  .Ah,  God! 

what  have  /  stolen  from  it what  have  I  stolen! 

George.     Marikke,  love,  be  yourself.     Think  what  lies  before  us ! 

Marikke.  Yes.  .  .yes.  .  .yes.  I  am  quiet  already.  Quieter  than 
ever.  Quite  calm.  What  is  before  us?  No  !  No ! .  .  .  .  I  will  not.  .  .  . 
I  cannot and  I  will  not.  ...      I  will  not. 

George.     Does  that  mean  that  you?  — 

Vogelreuter  [in  the  door].  Did  you  hear  anything  in  here,  children? 
Racket  or  anything? 

George.     Yes,  we  heard  shrieking.     What  was  the  matter? 

Vogelreuter.     Oh !  nothing  much.     Don't  trouble  yourselves  about  it, 

an  old  vagrant I  only  have  to  sign  a  paper.     I'll  be  back  right 

away  —  right  away.      [Goes  out.] 

George.     Marikke ! 

Marikke.  Hush !  Not  a  word !  Not  a  word !  She  out  there  must 
go  her  way.     I  in  here  must  go  mine. 

George.     What  do  you  mean? 

Marikke.  You  said  yourself  it  was  madness.  Yes,  yes,  it  is  madness. 
All,  all,  all  we  do,  all  we  desire.     All! 

George.     Marikke ! 

Marikke.  Do  you  believe  for  one  moment  that  we  could  be  happy  to- 
gether? I  know  you  too  well.  I  know  the  certain  result.  You  would  never 
forgive  yourself.  You  would  never  forgive  me,  and  in  the  end  life  would 
become  a  burden  to  me.  .  .because  I  would  be  in  your  way.  Yes,  yes,  that 
would  be  the  end  of  it  all. 

George.     I  see  clearly  how  it  must  end Marikke,  I  am  yours, 

all  yours,  all  I  am   and  have,  all  the  good  and  all  the  bad,  you  know  that! 

Marikke.     Thank  God,  yes. 

George.  And  if  there  were  only  a  possibility,  the  least  glimmer  of 
a  chance  to  break  away  from  this  —  merry-go-round,  if  we  might  be  really- 
free,  if  we  might  really.  .  .  .but,  no,  however  we  began,  we  could  never 
shake  off  our  duty  to  this  house  —  never  in  life  —  never! 


7o  SAINT  JOHN'S   FIRE 

Marikke.      Then  what  more  would  you  have? All  that  was  dear 

to  us  both  in  all  this  world,  all  love,  all  beauty,  all,  all  wc  have  given  each 
other.  There  is  nothing  more  to  give,  for  either  of  us,  nothing.  The  St. 
John's  Night  is  over,  the  fires  arc  all  out,  all  out. 

George.     And  what  is  to  become  of  us? 

Marikke.  Of  you?  That  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  you  will  be 
happy,  perhaps  not?  That  must  rest  with  you.  Of  me?  Ahl  I  will 
take  care  of  myself.  Be  quite  at  ease  about  that.  As  soon  as  I  can  I  shall 
leave  this  house.  Not  today,  as  I  would  like.  .  .for  it  might  excite  sus- 
picion. — 

George.     Where  will  you  go? 

Marikke .  How  do  I  know?  The  wrorld  is  wide.  To  Berlin.  Away, 
far  away.     Where  no  one  may  ever  find  me.     No,  no,  not  even  you,  George. 

George.     And  I!.  .  .if  you  go  to  destruction? 

Marikke.  That  is  not  conceivable.  I  am  the  '  Unlucky  Child.'  My 
hands  are  hard.  There,  see!  My  heart,  too,  is  hard  now.  I  will  work 
and  work  till  I  fall  exhausted;  and  then  I  will  sleep  and  sleep  till  it  is  time  to 
begin  work  again.      In  that  way  one  comes  through. 

George.  You  say  you  are  an  '  Unlucky  Child.'  So  am  I.  But  the 
reckoning  does  not  balance  between  us.  You  go  to  misery  and  I  am  to 
blame  for  it.  Even  if  I  did  not  love  you  as  I  do,  that  thought  would  fol- 
low me.      I  should  never  get  rid  of  it,  it  would  make  my  whole  life  bitter  — 

But be  it  so!       because       we  are  'the  Unlucky  Children.'     We 

will  grit  our  teeth  together  and  reach  each  other  our  two  hard  hands  and  say : 
Farewell. 

Marikke  [softly].  Farewell,  George!.  .  .  .  And.  .  .  .and.  .  .  .don't 
be  afraid!  He  is  not  coming  yet  —  and  forgive  me,  do  you  hear.  ...  you 
know !  Did  I  not  love  you  so,  it  would  not  be  so  hard  for  me.  But  there, 
there, .  .it  is  all  right  again.  I  know  I  can  never  become  quite  poor  now. 
The  St.  John's  fire  has  burnt  for  me  once.  .  .just  once.  .  .      Once. 

George.     Marikke. 

Marikke  [looking  around].     Let  me  go!     Let  me  go! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter  [entering  tvith  Trude].  Isn't  the  carriage  there 
yet,  children  dear?    What  is  papa  thinking  about?     It  is  time. 

Marikke.     I  think,  mamma,  that  it  is  coming  now. 

Vogelreuter  [entering].     Uh !     Go  ahead,  go  ahead,  go  ahead!     Oh, 


ROBERT  IPHYS  EVERETT  71 

yes,  you  wanted  to  say  something  first,  before .  .  . 

George  [with  a  look  at  Marikke].    Thank  you.     It  is  settled. 

Vogelreuter.  Huh !  Then,  quick !  My  coat,  my  coat !  [He  throws 
of  his  jacket  and  puts  on  the  black  coat  which  Mrs.  Vogelreuter  has 
brought  with  her.] 

Trude.     Well,  d  i  d  you  ask  him  ? 

[Marikke  nods.'] 

Trude.     And  what  —  ?  » 

Marikke.  It  was  all  nonsense,  child !  He  loves  no  one  but  you.  He 
has  never  loved  anyone  else,  he  says.  And  he  —  will  —  be  very  happy  — 
he  says. 

Trude  [bubbling  over'].  My  George!  [Throws  her  arms  around 
him.] 

Vogelreuter.  Now,  now !  What  does  this  mean  ?  You  can  be  affec- 
tionate a  little  later.  Come  on,  come  on,  come  on !  [All  go  to  the  door. 
George,  looking  back,  is  crowded  out  by  Vogelreuter,  only  Marikke 
remains  standing  at  the  left,  with  her  handkerchief  between  her  teeth,  look- 
ing after  them.] 

ICARUS 

By  Robert  Iphys  Everett 


O 


H,  love  and  be  loved  till  out  of  the  joy 

A  haughtier  ecstasy  springs 
To  master  the  bliss,  dare  the  ardors  cloy, 

Dare  the  Soul  fling  wider  her  wings ! 

Such  wonderful  wings ! 
They  must  out-soar  God, — 
Before  His  Face  the  man-heart  laud ! 

Still,  whether  it  chanced  that  Love  smiled  content, 
Or  if  he  craved  quenchlessly  more, 

Bright  alien  he  stayed  although  with  God  blent, 
In  his  breast  a  faint  heart  he  bore, 
So  faint  a  heart  bore, 

Though  he  rode  the  Sphere, 

He  sank  to  find  his  dwelling  —  here! 


SONGS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 
By  George  Germond 


M 


I 

Y  life  has  been  a  desert,  love, 
Stretches  of  arid  waste, 
With  never  a  bud  nor  blossom  decked, 
Nor  by  one  river  graced. 

Nothing  but  burning  sand  by  day, 

And  stilly  gloom  by  night, 
With  never  a  hope  for  waking  time, 

Nor  dream,  the  dark  to  light. 

Above  my  world  which  nothing  holds 

Of  fair  and  fresh  and  true, 
You  gleam,  as  the  Stars  above  the  Waste, 

My  flower,  my  light,  my  dew. 

II 

My  life  was  bare  as  the  desert  sands 

Until  you  held  its  hours, 
When  swiftly  there  bloomed  beneath  your  hands 

Roses  and  jasmine  flowers. 

You  turned  the  sands  to  a  garden  fair, 
Where  fountains  sang  life's  rune; 

But  why  could  you  not  make  changeless  there 
Always  and  ever,  June? 

Ill 

If  you  could  make,  as  you  have  done, 

From  out  the  wilderness 
My  life  to  blossom,  by  the  sun 

Of  your  white  hands'  caress, 

(72) 


GEORGE   GERMOND  73 

For  wilderness  to  rose  and  green 

Beneath  your  smile  to  start, 
What  would  its  blossoming  have  been 

If  it  had  known  your  heart? 

IV 

Once  there  sprang  a  fountain 

In  my  waste  <of  life; 
Once  there  grew  a  palm  tree 

'Midst  its  scorching  strife. 

Once  a  green  oasis 

Smiled  upon  the  blue, 
Drawing  down  from  heaven 

Benisons  of  dew. 

Now  no  tree  or  fountain 

Sparkles  in  the  sun; 
Green  is  parched  to  ashes, 

Blossoming  undone. 

Now  I  long  for  midnight 

To  assuage  life's  smart; 
Burning  sands  of  memory 

Sear  my  aching  heart, 

While  I  watch  your  sheathing 

Sunlight  scimitars, 
Waiting  you,  my  solace  — 

Silver  gleaming  stars. 

V 

As  blossoms  on  the  arid  desert  sand 

Lie,  parched  and  dying,  in  some  sun-scorched  land, 

So  doth  my  life,  which  crieth  out  for  thee, 
Droop,  fading  slow  beneath  its  destiny. 


74        WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY,  THE  INNOVATOR 

And  Thou  who,  beautiful  and  bright,  dost  move, 
The  perfumed  Rose,  the  shining  Star  of  love, 

My  heart  is  dying  far  away  from  thee, 
Who  dost  deny  thyself  to  love  and  me. 

My  heart  is  dying,  and  my  life  is  torn 

With  death's  white  anguish  of  a  love  forlorn; 

Yet  little  matter  that  this  life  of  mine, 
All  that  is  left  me,  passes  without  sign; 

For  though  unto  the  Vague  Beyond  it  slips, 
My  soul  died  long  ago  upon  thy  lips. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY,  THE  INNOVATOR 

An   Estimate 
By  Milton  Bronner 

TO  conquer  a  new  province  for  the  poetry  of  all  the  world  and 
to  free  English  verse  from  the  trammels  —  if  such  they  be  — 
of  rhyme,  —  these  were  the  achievements  of  William  Ernest 
Henley  by  which  he  will  be  principally  known  when  the 
history   of  English  literature   of  the   past  twro   decades   is 
written. 
What  Whitman  did  for  battle  scenes  in  poetry,  Henley  did  for  life  in 
a  hospital.     What  Heine  did  for  broken  lines  and  vers  libres  in  German, 
Henley  did  in  English.    And,  indeed,  it  is  of  Whitman  and  Heine  that  one 
is  most  frequently  reminded  in  studying  Henley's  poetry;  of  Heine  because 
of  his  similar  lyrical  turn,  his  little  songs,  his  '  gay,  golden-voweled  madri- 
gals.'    Only,  where  Heine  was  essentially  romantic,  where  he  celebrated 
Seraphine  and  Angelique  and  Clarissa  and  many  more,  the  English  poet 
sang  to  his  one  sweetheart,  his  wife  : 

1  My  songs  were  once  of  the  sunrise : 
They  shouted  it  over  the  bar; 


MILTON  BRONNER  75 

First-footing  the  dawns,  they  flourished 
And  flamed  with  the  morning  star. 

My  songs  are  now  of  the  sunset: 

Their  brows  are  touched  with  light; 

But  their  feet  are  lost  in  the  shadows 
And  wet  with  the  dews  of  night. 

Yet  for  the  joy  in  their  making 

Take  them,  O  fond  and  true; 
And  for  his  sake  who  made  them 

Let  them  be  dear  to  You.' 

Again,  Henley  did  for  the  broken  line,  for  unrhymed  verse,  what 
Whitman  tried  to  do,  and  in  only  rare  instances  completely  succeeded;  the 
difference  being  that  in  Henley  one  feels,  '  Here  is  true  poetry ' ;  in  Whit- 
man, '  Here  is  poetry  in  solution,  more  or  less  murky.'  With  Whitman,  too, 
Henley  was  the  poet  who  sang  of  death.  To  him  death  was  ever  present,  as 
present  as  to  the  Florentines  of  the  Renaissance.  His  own  life  a  fight  more 
or  less  with  constant  sickness,  existence  was  to  him  a  battle-field,  in  which, 
nevertheless,  he  enjoyed  fighting. 

1  The  ways  of  Death  are  soothing  and  serene, 

And  all  the  words  of  Death  are  grave  and  sweet, 
From  camp  and  church,  the  fireside  and  the  street, 
She  beckons  forth  —  and  strife  and  song  have  been.' 

So  much  for  the  main  currents  of  his  poetry.  It  was  in  1888  that  his 
now  famous  'A  Book  of  Verses '  was  given  to  the  world.  It  contained  the 
celebrated  poems  entitled  '  In  Hospital,'  enough,  one  would  think,  to  have 
made  any  young  poet's  fame.  Yet  Henley  says,  'After  spending  the  better 
part  of  my  life  in  the  pursuit  of  poetry  I  found  myself  so  utterly  unmar- 
ketable that  I  had  to  own  myself  beaten  in  art.'  As  for  the  hospital  verses, 
'  they  had  long  since  been  rejected  by  every  editor  of  standing  in  London.' 

And,  indeed,  there  was  little  wonder.  Here  were  not  cut  and  dried 
subjects,  nor  reminiscences  of  anything  that  had  gone  before.  Here  were 
new  subjects  and  daring  rhythms.     You  read  these  verses  and  you  pass 


76        WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY,  THE  INNOVATOR 

out  from  the  open  air  into  an  Edinburgh 

'  Hospital,  gray,  quiet,  old, 


Where  Life  and  Death  like  friendly  charterers  meet.' 

You  wait  in  the  '  square,  squat  room,'  where  your  ailments  are  diagnosed. 
You  are  taken  into  the  operating  room,  where  you  are  chloroformed  and 
the  surgeons  ply  the  knife.  You  toss  on  your  sleepless  and  feverish  bed. 
You  study  the  faces  of  the  nurses  and  the  doctors  and  attendants.  You 
see  all  the  tragedies  and  comedies  of  this  little  world  in  itself.  You  long 
for  the  open  air  again,  and  all  about  you  are  the  odors  of  medicines  and 
drugs  and  the  sight  of  crimson-stained  bandages,  and  at  last  you  are  dis- 
charged, and  a  song  wells  from  you : 

1  Carry  me  out 
Into  the  wind  and  the  sunshine, 
Into  the  beautiful  world. 

Free ! 


Dizzy,  hysterical,  faint, 

I  sit,  and  the  carriage  rolls  on  with  me 

Into  the  wonderful  world.' 

Once  and  for  all  time  the  scenes  in  hospital  have  been  put  into  verse 
and  are  a  lasting  addition  to  the  world's  poetry.  Sheer  realism,  some  of  it 
is,  and  yet  touched  with  the  true  magic  of  poetry7 : 

'Behold  me  waiting  —  waiting  for  the  knife. 
A  little  while,  and  at  a  leap  I  storm 
The  thick,  sweet  mystery  of  chloroform, 
The  drunken  dark,  the  little  death-in-life.' 

And  who  that  has  read  it  can  ever  forget  the  wonderful  'Operation,' 
with  its  swift  pictures  and  its  scorn  of  rhyme  ? 

1  You  are  carried  in  a  basket, 
Like  a  carcass  from  the  shambles, 
To  the  theater,  a  cockpit 
Where  they  stretch  you  on  a  table. 


MILTON  BRONNER  77 

Then  they  bid  you  close  your  eyelids, 
And  they  mask  you  with  a  napkin, 
And  the  anaesthetic  reaches 
Hot  and  subtle  through  your  being. 

And  you  gasp  and  reel  and  shudder 
In  a  rushing,  swaying  rapture, 
While  the  voices  aj  your  elbow 
Fade  —  receding  —  fainter  —  farther. 

Lights  about  you  shower  and  tumble, 
And  your  blood  seems  crystallizing  — 
Edged  and  vibrant,  yet  within  you 
Racked  and  hurried  back  and  forward. 

Then  the  lights  grow  fast  and  furious, 
And  you  hear  a  noise  of  waters; 
And  you  wrestle,  blind  and  dizzy, 
In  an  agony  of  effort, 

Till  a  sudden  lull  accepts  you, 
And  you  sound  an  utter  darkness  .   .   . 
And  awaken  .   .   .  with  a  struggle  .   .   . 
On  a  hushed,  attentive  audience.' 

In  startling  contrast  to  this  section  of  the  little  book  were  the  poems 
included  in  '  Bric-a-Brac'  In  1870,  when  it  was  the  fashion  —  imported 
from  France  —  for  young  poets  '  to  adorn  a  refrain,  to  sparkle  and  sound 
in  odelets  and  rondels  and  triolets,  to  twinkle  and  tinkle  and  chime  all  over 
the  eight  and  twenty  numbers  of  a  fair  ballade,'  Henley  was  not  behind- 
hand. He  was  a  master  of  rhyme,  and  his  ballades,  successful  as  those  of 
Lang  and  Dobson,  had  an  individuality  of  their  own.  One  example  of 
his  felicity  must  suffice.  Here  is  the  first  stanza  of  the  '  Ballade  of  a  Toyo- 
kuni  Colour  Print,'  brimful  of  the  essence  of  romance: 

'  Was  I  a  Samurai  renowned, 

Two-sworded,  fierce,  immense  of  bow? 
A  histrion,  angular  and  profound? 


78        WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY,  THE  INNOVATOR 

A  priest?     A  porter?  —  Child,  although 

I  have  forgotten  clean,  I  know 
That  in  the  shade  of  Eujisan, 

What  time  the  cherry-orchards  blow, 
I  loved  you  once  in  old  Japan.' 

The  poet's  work  in  his  subsequent  volumes  contained  much  that  was 
lovely,  much  that  was  grim  and  macabre,  much  that  was  unforgettable,  but 
it  contained  no  more  new  departures.  The  poet,  to  whom  Tennyson's 
last  years  were  memorable  because  he  was  impatient  of  rhyme  and  confident 
of  rhythms,  continued  his  own  work  in  rhymed,  broken  lines  and  in  those 
which  were  not  rhymed. 

It  has  sometimes  been  claimed  that  Henley's  most  distinctive  work 
was  contained  in  his  'London  Voluntaries';  not,  to  be  sure,  in  that  stern, 
virile  'Song  of  the  Sword,'  dedicated  to  Rudyard  Kipling: 

'  The  Sword 
Singing  — 

The  voice  of  the  Sword  from  the  heart  of  the  Sword 
Clanging  imperious 
Forth  from  Time's  battlements 
His  ancient  and  triumphing  Song.' 

—  not  in  these  iron  lines,  but  in  those  superb  'Voluntaries'  which  celebrate 
gray  old  London  in  the  different  seasons  of  the  year,  showing  us  how,  to 
the  poet,  the  ancient  city  can  be  beautiful  or  terrible,  as  the  mood  strikes  him. 
Now  it  is  October  in  the  Strand,  and  over  all  the  bright  warm  sun 
sheds  a  glory  which  shimmers  in  the  verse : 

'  The  windows  with  their  fleeting,  flickering  fires. 
The  height  and  spread  of  frontage  shining  sheer, 
The  quiring  signs,  the  rejoicing  roofs  and  spires  — 
'Tis  El  Dorado  —  El  Dorado  plain, 
The  Golden  City!    And  when  a  girl  goes  by, 
Look!   as  she  turns  her  glancing  head, 
A  call  of  gold  is  floated  from  her  ear! 
Golden,  all  golden !     In  a  golden  glory, 


MILTON  BRONNER  79 

Long-lapsing  down  a  golden-coasted  sky, 

The  day  not  dies,  but  seems 

Dispersed  in  wafts  and  drifts  of  gold,  and  shed 

Upon  a  past  of  golden  song  and  story 

And  memories  of  gold  and  golden  dreams.' 

But  to  this  same  London  there  comes  a  foul  east  wind,  bringing  dis- 
eases, 

'And  Death  the  while,  — 

Death  with  his  well-worn,  lean,  professional  smile, 
Death  in  his  threadbare,  working  trim  — 
Comes  to  your  bedside,  unannounced  and  bland, 
And  with  expert,  inevitable  hand 
Feels  at  your  windpipe,  fingers  you  in  the  lung, 
Or  flicks  the  clot  well  into  the  labouring  heart: 
Thus  signifying  unto  old  and  young, 
However  hard  of  mouth  or  wild  of  whim, 
'Tis  time  —  'tis  time  by  his  ancient  watch  —  to  part 
From  books  and  women  and  talk  and  drink  and  art. 
And  you  go  humbly  after  him 
To  a  mean,  suburban  lodging:   on  the  way 
To  what  or  where 
Not  Death,  who  is  old  and  very  wise,  can  say.' 

It  is  a  striking  contrast,  as  striking  as  the  comparison  between  the 
famous  lines: 

'  It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 
I  am  the  master  of  my  fate : 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul.' 

—  between  these  lines  and  the  calm,  sweet,  dying  cadences  of  this  solemn 
chant  in  memory  of  a  dead  sister,  this  masterly  example  of  the  poet's  success 
rn  rhythms: 

'A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies; 
And  from  the  west, 


8o        WILLIAM  ERNEST  IIKXLKY,  TIIK   INNOVATOR 

Where  the  sun,  his  clay's  work  ended, 

I  dingers  as  in  content, 

There  (alls  on  the  old,  gray  city 

An  influence  luminous  anil  serene, 

A  shining  peace. 

The  smoke  ascends 

In  a  rosy-and-golden  haze.     The  spires 

Shine,  and  are  changed.     In  the  valley 

Shadows  rise.    The  lark  sings  on.     The  sun, 

Closing  his  benediction, 

Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 

Thrills  with  a  sense  of  triumphing  night  — 

Night  with  her  train  of  stars 

And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 

So  be  my  passing! 

My  task  accomplished  and  the  long  day  done; 

My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 

Some  late  lark  singing, 

Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  west, 

The  sundown,  splendid  and  serene, 

Death.' 
In  all  of  Henley  there  is  this  intense  personal  note.  He  is  not  the 
kind  of  poet  who  says,  '  Now  I  will  be  sad,'  and  again,  '  Now  I  will  be  gay ' ; 
but  he  is  sad  and  from  his  troubled  heart  there  comes  a  song  with  its  minor 
lilt  of  pain  or  sorrow  or  melancholy;  he  is  gay  and  there  comes  welling 
forth  a  note  of  gladness,  of  joy  in  mere  living,  of  keen  delight  in  the  beau- 
ties of  God's  world  — 

'Of  a  world  still  young  —  still  young! 
Whose  last  word  won't  be  said, 

Nor  her  last  song  dreamed  and  sung, 
Till  her  last  true  lover's  dead! ' 
This  personal  note  extends  to  his  prose.  True  criticism  should  be 
impersonal,  holding  the  scales  evenly,  telling  alike  an  author's  defects  and 
his  merits,  and  rendering  a  decision  in  accordance  with  well-established 
laws  and  rules  and  canons.  The  personal  element  is  lacking.  For  that 
reason  real  criticism  is  so  rarely  interesting  and  appealing.  It  is  that  im- 
pressionism, which  we  commonly  miscall  criticism,  which  appeals  to  us  by 


MILTON  BRONNER  Si 

its  vigor,  its  deep,  personal  note,  its  eloquence.  One  does  not  care  particu- 
larly to  hear  a  justice  pronounce  judgment  but  to  listen  to  an  eloquent  advo- 
cate for  the  state  or  for  the  defense,  —  ah,  that  is  another  matter.  Henley 
is  rarely  a  justice.  He  is  almost  always  an  advocate.  In  the  case  of  Dickens, 
how  eloquently  he  defends  his  favorite!  How  adroitly  he  touches  on  the 
weakness  in  the  case.  'He  wrote  some  nonsense ;  he  sinned  repeatedly  against 
good  taste;  he  could  be  both  noisy  and  vulgar;  he  was  apt  to  be  a  caricaturist 
where  he  should  have  been  a  painter;  \\e  was  often  mawkish  and  often  ex- 
travagant; and  he  was  sometimes  more  inept  than  a  great  writer  has  ever 
been ' ;  and  then  how  strongly  Henley  presses  home  to  us  Dickens's  match- 
less humor,  his  sincerity,  his  artistry,  the  worth  of  his  greatest  creations! 
Again,  in  the  case  of  Thackeray,  how  vigorous  he  is  for  the  prosecution. 
The  author  on  trial  is  a  cynic,  he  is  '  innately  and  irredeemably  a  Philistine  ' ; 
1  there  is  something  artificial  in  the  man  and  something  insincere  in  the  artist; 
his  intelligence  is  largely  one  of  trifles;  he  is  wise  over  trivial  and  trumpery 
things.  He  delights  in  reminding  us  —  with  an  air  —  that  everybody  is 
a  humbug;  that  we  are  all  rank  snobs.' 

Continuing  for  the  prosecution,  Henley  charges  that,  Esmond  apart, 
there  is  scarce  a  man  or  a  woman  in  Thackeray  whom  it  is  possible  to 
love  unreservedly  or  thoroughly  respect;  that  the  function  of  his  art  was  to 
degrade  and  not  ennoble;  not  to  encourage,  but  to  dishearten;  not  to  deal 
with  great  things  and  beautiful  and  lofty,  but  with  those  which  were  ugly 
and  paltry  and  mean.  The  only  good  quality  that  he  will  allow  Thackeray 
is  his  perfect  style.  Indeed,  after  the  manner  of  the  prosecutor,  he  sums 
up  the  case,  he  gives  the  measure  of  the  man,  and  determines  the  quality  of 
his  influence  in  an  epigram,  for  he  says  of  Thackeray :  '  He  was  the  average 
clubman  plus  genius  and  a  style.' 

This  is  not  real  criticism,  but  we  love  him  for  it,  because  it  displays  him 
a  full-blooded,  virile,  downright  man,  with  his  strong  likes  and  dislikes. 

4  He  has  opinions  and  the  courage  of  them;  he  has  assurance  and  he 
has  charm;  he  writes  with  an  engaging  clearness.  It  is  very  possible  to 
disagree  with  him,  but  it  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  resist  his  many  graces  of 
manner,  and  decline  to  be  entertained  and  even  interested  by  the  variety 
and  quality  of  his  matter.' 

Thus  Henley  spoke  concerning  Matthew  Arnold;  thus  we,  concerning 
Henley.    He,  too,  has  variety  and  quality.    He  is  not  always  the  advocate, 


82        WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY,  THE  INNOVATOR 

as  in  the  views  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray.  On  rarer  occasions  he  is  the 
justice,  and  then  one  has  a  criticism  of  Hugo,  notable  tor  its  clarity,  its 
sanity,  and  its  fairness. 

I  Ie  will  toss  out  carelessly  an  epigrammatic  utterance  of  value,  such 
as  this : 

'  This  is  the  merit  and  distinction  of  art:  to  be  more  real  than  reality, 
to  he  not  nature  but  nature's  essence.' 

Sometimes  he  will  give  one  the  full  measure  of  a  poet  in  two  sentences: 
1  The  muse  of  M.  de  Banville  was  born  not  naked  but  in  the  most  elaborate 
and  sumptuous  evening  wear  that  ever  muse  put  on.'  Thus  he  begins  a 
criticism,  and  one  begins  to  understand  perfectly  de  Banville's  manner 
and  mannerisms  better  than  if  he  had  used  pages  in  analysis. 

'  If  P-errot  and  Columbine  were  all  the  race  and  the  footlights  m'ght 
only  change  places  with  the  sun,  then  were  M.  de  Banville  by  way  of  being 
a  Shakespeare.' 

Thus  ends  the  essay,  and  one  understands  something  of  the  subject 
matter  and  the  accomplishment  of  the  French  poet.  It  is  criticism  by  light- 
ning flashes. 

Or,  again,  he  will  not  criticise  at  all,  but  in  pages  of  superb  English 
will  bring  to  one  all  the  atmosphere  of  the  poet  under  discussion,  will  make 
one  see  what  the  poet  celebrates,  and  will  send  one  hot-haste  after  the 
pleasant  volume.    Who  that  loves  Herrick  is  not  grateful  for  this? 

1  In  Herrick  the  air  is  fragrant  with  new-mown  hay;  there  is  a  morning 
light  upon  all  things;  long  shadows  streak  the  grass,  and  on  the  eglantine 
swinging  in  the  hedge  the  dew  lies  white  and  brilliant.  Out  of  the  happy 
distance  comes  a  shrill  and  silvery  sound  of  whetting  scythes,  and  from  the 
near  brookside  rings  the  laughter  of  merry  maids  in  circle  to  make  cowslip- 
balls  and  babble  of  their  bachelors.  As  you  walk  you  are  conscious  of  "  the 
grace  that  morning  meadows  wear,"  and  mayhap  you  meet  Amaryllis  going 
home  to  the  farm  with  an  apronful  of  flowers.  Rounded  is  she  and  buxom, 
cool-cheeked  and  vigorous  and  trim,  smelling  of  rosemary  and  thyme,  with 
an  appetite  for  curds  and  cream  and  a  tongue  of  "  cleanly  wantonness." 

And  so,  with  this  last  citation,  we  leave  him,  this  singer  of  the  personal 
note  and  critic  of  the  personal  note,  this  innovator,  who  must  henceforth 
have  a  place  in  England's  pantheon  as  an  author  of  genuine  poetry  and 
beautiful  prose. 


THE  NEO-CELTIC  POET— WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 
By  Julia  Ellsworth  Ford  and  Kate  V.  Thompson 

'  Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought; 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers; 
Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers.' 

SINCE  Emerson  wrote  these  words  we  have  been  passing  through 
an  era  of  great  scientific  '  progress.'  The  need  for  accurate  ob- 
jective concepts  of  things  in  heaven  and  earth  has  been  keenlv 
felt  in  all  departments  of  intellectual  activity. 

It  has  seemed  as  if  the  dreary  prognostication  of  Poe,  our 
first  great  imaginative  poet,  were  actually  to  be  verified;,  as  if  it 
would  be  indeed  impossible  for  the  poet  to  possess  in  peace  his  '  dream  be- 
neath the  tamarind  tree.'  There  are  signs  and  portents  that  this  movement 
has  had  its  highest  development.  The  most  sanguine  disciple  of  the  micro- 
scopical school  of  literary  expression  can  hardly  hope  to  exceed  recent 
exploits.  There  are  other  signs  and  portents  which  indicate  a  reaction 
against  the  laboratory  methods  in  creative  art.  If  it  be  true  that  the  '  scien- 
tist masters  the  world  as  a  reality,'  it  is  equally  true  that  the  seer  possesses 
it  by  a  dream. 

The  strongest  indication  of  this  present  reactive  tendency  is  shown  in 
the  intellectual  revival  in  Ireland,  and  the  strongest  outcome  of  the  renais- 
sance of  beauty  and  mystery  is  found  in  the  work  of  William  Butler  Yeats, 
poet,  essayist,  dramatist,  who  recently  lectured  in  this  country  on  the  Gaelic 
revival. 

Born  in  Dublin  in  1865,  of  artistic  forebears,  and  brought  up  in  the 
picturesque  county  of  Sligo,  he  early  learned  to  love  the  wild  beauty  of 
hillside  and  valley,  and  to  listen  to  the  infinite  soul  of  the  sea  calling  to  the 
cliffs  and  the  voices  of  the  Shee  riding  in  the  winds.     He  lived  in  the  Celtic 

(83) 


84  THE  NEO-CELTK   POET— WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

twilight  of  nature,  and  these  words  are  his  call  to  those  still  in  the  market 
place  to  enter  into  the  sanctuary: 

4  Outworn  heart,  in  a  time  outworn, 

Come  clear  of  the  nets  of  wrong  and  right; 
Laugh,  heart,  again  in  the  gray  twilight, 
Sigh,  heart,  again  in  the  dew  of  the  morn. 

Come,  heart,  where  hill  is  heaped  upon  hill; 
For  there  the  mystical  brotherhood 
Of  sun  and  moon  and  hollow  and  wood 

And  river  and  stream  work  out  their  will; 

And  God  stands  winding  His  lonely  horn, 
And  time  and  the  world  are  ever  in  flight; 
And  love  is  less  kind  than  the  gray  twilight, 

And  hope  is  less  dear  than  the  dew  of  the  morn.' 

To  this  youth,  thus  happily  born  and  nurtured,  came  Blake,  Shelley, 
and  Morris,  with  the  Pre-Raphaelite  masters.  He  had  as  a  birthright  the 
Celtic  sympathy  with  strange  beauty  of  all  times  and  climes,  but  he  was 
modern  in  catholicity  of  soul.  His  awakening  was  at  the  same  hour  with 
his  race. 

This  awakening  to  self-consciousness  of  the  great,  oppressed  people 
of  Ireland  has  taken  many  forms.  Mr.  Yeats  is  especially  connected  with 
the  drama,  as  he  founded  the  Irish  Theater  in  1899.  We  recall  three 
artistic  productions  of  his  plays  in  New  York  city,  and  regret  that  they 
were  so  few.  His  conception  of  the  purpose  of  the  theater  is  so  far  removed 
from  the  modern  idea  that  it  will  only  be  understood  intelligently  by  his 
own  explanation  in  his  beautiful  essays,  '  The  Ideas  of  Good  and  Evil.'  It 
is  not  our  privilege  to  dwell  upon  this  subject  here  further  than  to  say  that 
to  Mr.  Yeats  the  theater  is  a  temple,  the  actor  a  priest  of  humanity,  and 
the  play  a  religious  service. 

It  has  been  well  said  that  '  one  of  the  distinguishing  characteristics  of 
Mr.  Yeats'  religious  attitude  toward  literature  is  that  he  never  treats  a 
work  of  art  in  the  distinctive  literary  way,  but  as  the  speech  and  embodiment 
of  forces  that  are  and  have  been  spiritually  at  work  in  the  world.'     Thus 


JULIA  ELLSWORTH  FORD  AND  KATE  V.  THOMPSON   85 

his  plays  present  points  of  comparison  with  the  mystical  works  of  Maeter- 
linck. The  best  known  of  Mr.  Yeats's  six  longer  plays  and  those  which 
interest  people  most  directly  are,  '  Countess  Cathleen,'  and  '  The  Land  of 
the  Heart's  Desire.'     Both  are  lyric  dramas. 

The  motive  of  the  latter  exquisite  poem  would  appear  to  be  the  asser- 
tion of  the  supremacy  of  imagination.  The  visitant  from  the  world  of 
spirits  overcomes  the  powers  of  tradition  and  environment  by  no  magic 
rites,  and  takes  only  that  which  is  her  own.  When  the  priest  calls  the  bride 
from  the  powers  of  Faery  — 

I  By  the  dear  name  of  the  one  crucified 
I  bid  you,  Marie  Bruin,  come  to  me,' 

The  child  spirit  answers 

I I  keep  you  in  the  name  of  your  own  heart.' 

The  plays  are  the  product  of  elementary  folk  tales,  attaining  exquisite 
hues  by  passing  through  the  exalted  imagination  of  the  foremost  poet  of 
his  time. 

Next  to  these  two  in  importance  come  the  four  plays  known  as  '  The 
Hour  Glass,'  '  Cathleen  ni  Hoolihan,'  '  The  Pot  of  Broth,'  and  '  The  King's 
Threshold.'  These  are  remarkable  as  evidences  of  the  real  worth  of  sim- 
plicity in  dramatic  art.  '  The  Hour  Glass  '  and  '  The  King's  Threshold  ' 
are  moralities,  and  to  understand  them  rightly  we  must  be  in  sympathy  with 
the  subjective  drama.  What  you  are  asked  to  contemplate  is  the  inner  life 
of  the  mind.  'Cathleen  ni  Hoolihan'  breathes  the  spirit  of  '98,  yet  it 
has  the  same  dream-feeling  as  the  others.  '  The  Pot  of  Broth '  is  a  bit  of 
local  humor. 

The  play  that  is  most  enveloped  in  the  atmosphere  of  mystery  is  '  The 
Shadowy  Waters.'  In  this  poem  we  are  carried  out  of  ourselves  by  the 
magical  quality  of  language,  and  we  doubt  if  any  French  symbolist  has 
equaled  it  in  this  respect.  Even  in  works  of  Shelley  and  Keats  (to  whom  his 
friend  and  fellow-poet,  'A.  E.,'  says  Mr.  Yeats  is  most  akin  as  a  Roman- 
ticist) we  cannot  find  passages  of  more  perfect  beauty  than  the  following 
invocation  to  the  '  immortal  mild  proud  shadows '  to  whom  the  poet  owes 
his  inspiration. 


86  THE  NEO-CELTIC  POET—WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

'Is  Eden  out  of  time  and  out  of  space, 
And  do  you  gather  about  us  when  pale  light 
Shining  on  water  and  fallen  among  leaves, 
\ml  winds  blowing  from  flowers,  and  whirr  of  feathers 
And  the  green  quiet,  have  uplifted  the  heart? 

I  have  made  this  poem  for  you  that  men  may  read  it 
Before  they  read  of  Forgael  and  Dectora ; 
As  men  in  the  old  times,  before  the  harps  began, 
Poured  out  wine  for  the  bright  invisible  ones.' 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  old  Irish  legends  and  faery  folk-lore  to  the 
socialism  of  today,  but  the  gulf  is  bridged  by  '  Where  There  is  Nothing,' 
a  play  in  which  the  Zeitgeist  has  overmastered  the  poet  so  fully  that  he  has 
indicted  modern  society  more  courageously  than  the  professed  reformers. 
The  earlier  scenes  recall  Bernard  Shaw  and  Ibsen,  but  the  latter  portion 
is  peculiar  to  itself.  This  play  lacks  technical  finish  and  unity,  but  as  Mr. 
Yeats  expects  to  rearrange  it  completely  it  is  unnecessary  to  criticise  it  in 
detail.  As  it  stands,  with  all  its  imperfections  on  its  head,  it  is  a  most  im- 
pressive assertion  of  the  author's  belief  in  the  essential  divinity  of  humanity. 
It  is  very  unfortunate  that  it  has  been  so  little  understood. 

To  appreciate  all  of  Mr.  Yeats's  lyrics  it  is  well  to  be  familiar  with 
the  ancient  legends  of  Ireland,  as  well  as  with  his  own  stories,  collected  in 
'  The  Secret  Rose.'  But  there  are  many,  such  as  '  Into  the  Twilight,'  '  The 
Sad  Shepherd,'  '  The  Poet  Pleads  with  his  Friend  for  Old  Friends,'  '  Father 
Gilbihan,'  and  'The  Cap  and  Bells,'  which  need  no  bush. 

In  the  latter  class  we  include  '  The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,'  beloved  of 
Stevenson,  of  which  he  says  in  a  letter  to  Yeats,  '  I  have  fallen  in  slavery 
to  your  poem  called,  "  The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree."  It  is  so  quaint  and 
airy,  simple,  artful,  and  eloquent  to  the  heart  —  but  I  seek  words  in  vain. 
Enough  that  always,  night  and  day,  I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low 
sounds  on  the  shore.' 

The  enjoyment  of  these  lyrics  depends  entirely  upon  the  susceptibility 
of  the  reader  to  that  transcendent  charm  which  is  the  heart  of  hearts  of 
Celtic  poetry.  In  'The  Rider  from  the  North,'  which  Mr.  Yeats  has  said 
is  a  great  favorite  of  his  own,  the  charm  lies  entirely  in  its  mystic  suggestion. 
'  He  that  hath  ears  to  hear  let  him  hear.' 


JULIA  ELLSWORTH  FORD  AND  KATE  V.  THOMPSON   87 

Mr.  Yeats's  prose  work,  outside  his  plays,  comes  under  two  divisions : 
creative  work  and  critical  appreciation. 

The  former  includes  a  collection  of  folk-lore  tales,  '  The  Celtic  Twi- 
light,' and  the  inimitable  original  stories  in  '  The  Secret  Rose ' ;  the  latter 
is  best  represented  by  his  confession  of  faith  in  '  Ideas  of  Good  and  Evil.' 
The  greater  part  of  these  essays,  whatever  be  their  titles,  is  devoted  to  the 
exposition  of  the  true  value  and  office  of  symbolism.  Whether  treating  the 
philosophy  of  Shelley  or  Blake,  the  prose  of  Morris,  or  the  illusion  of 
'  Popular  Poetry,'  the  author  is  always  presenting  the  claims  of  the  mystical 
and  eternal  secrets  of  the  unseen. 

It  is  at  first  startling  to  the  respectable  Philistine  to  find  a  scholar  of 
Mr.  Yeats's  attainment  gravely  supporting  the  practice  of  magic  and  stating 
his  faith  in  the  power  of  '  signatures.'  In  all  this  he  is  in  advance  of  the 
modern  school  of  French  symbolists,  who,  with  groanings  of  spirit,  strive 
to  find  their  way  toward  the  road  which  has  always  been  his  natural  direction. 
He  is  not  only  a  symbolist  but  a  true  mystic,  more  mystical  than  any  modern 
poet,  except  William  Blake,  of  whom  he  is  a  fervent  disciple;  he  feels  the 
presence  of  the  '  Divine  Essence,'  and  walks  the  earth  in  a  dream.  It  is 
impossible  in  a  brief  space  to  consider  the  deeper  phases  of  the  mystical 
creed.  Mr.  Yeats  has  summed  them  all  up  in  his  wonderful  essay  on  Wil- 
liam Blake,  which  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  additions  to  critical  literature 
that  has  been  written  in  the  last  decade.  The  very  title  of  the  book  is  a 
recognition  of  the  writer's  indebtedness  to  the  greatest  English  mystic.  If 
space  permitted  we  should  like  to  give  more  time  to  this  book,  because  it 
will  appeal  to  the  general  mind.  Few  people  are  ready  for  mystic  poems  or 
plays;  more  for  essays  explaining  an  author's  point  of  view.  An  age  of 
materialism  is  still  doubtful  of  the  insanity  of  the  quest  of  the  Heathen 
Grail. 

In  this  year  of  our  Lord  it  is  a  proof  of  surpassing  lucidity  of  intellect 
to  consecrate  seven  vital  years  to  the  intestines  of  a  noxious  parasite,  but  a 
suspicion  of  degeneration  of  gray  matter  attaches  to  the  brain  of  the  indi- 
vidual who  concerns  herself  with  the  '  Far  off,  most  Secret  Rose.'  Between 
'  Rosa  Alchemica '  and  the  Rose  of  the  Laboratory  we  make  an  eternal 
choice. 

We  have  said  that  Mr.  Yeats  has  very  little  in  common  with  the  Sym- 
bolists of  the  Continent,  but  in  conscientious  craftsmanship  he  is  as  un- 


88  THE  NEO-CELTIC  POET— WILLIAM  BUTLER  5TEATS 

sparing  of  toil  as  Villier  de  L'Isle  Adam.  lie  seeks  'a  style  which  shall 
hold,  as  in  a  mirror,  the  colors  ol  one's  own  climate  and  scenery,  in  their 
right  proportion,'  and  he  tells  how  to  find  it  in  'Adam's  Curse.' 

I  lis  ideal  of  technical  excellence  lay  in  the  prose  romances  of  William 
Morris.  In  'The  Secret  Rose'  he  has  achieved  perfection  in  this  line  with- 
out the  prolixity  which  too  often  disfigures  Morris'  otherwise  perfect  style. 

The  romances  of  Morris  are  masterpieces  of  art  for  the  pure  love  of 
creation.  The  stories  of  the  Secret  Rose  voice  the  infinite  longing  of 
humanity  for  escape  from  the  bonds  of  actual  life.  The  poet  Hanrahan  is 
but  a  symbol  of  the  highest  emotion,  wandering  over  the  earth,  unmated 
and  finding  its  peers  only  in  the  space  outside  of  the  universe.  Amid  stories 
of  the  life  of  the  peasant  we  find  as  contrast  'The  Crucifixion  of  the  Out- 
cast,' which  is  without  parallel  in  modern  literature,  and  can  only  be  com- 
pared to  the  '  Little  Flowers  of  Saint  Francis '  and  like  legends.  All  these 
stories  are  parables,  leaves  from  the  Tree  of  Life,  still  guarded  by  the  angel 
of  the  flaming  sword  lest  the  truth  should  be  degraded  to  utility.  If  any 
cavil  at  the  thin  veil  of  fiction  which  enwraps  the  sacred  teachings,  we  must 
remember  that  the  '  Wisdom  of  Kings '  decreed  also  '  that  any  who  told 
the  truth  to  the  child  should  be  flung  from  a  cliff  into  the  sea.' 

All  Mr.  Yeats's  versatile  gifts,  his  mystic  insight,  power,  pathos, 
humor,  subtlety,  and  the  magic  of  his  touch,  are  inspired,  as  has  been 
well  said  by  the  Irish  Swedenborg,  '  by  the  Holy  Breath,  and  must  needs 
speak  of  things  which  have  no  sensuous  existence,  of  hopes  all  unearthly, 
and  fires  of  which  the  colors  of  day  are  only  shadows.' 

His  confession  of  faith  has  been  summed  up  in  an  article  upon  '  John 
Eglinton  and  Spiritual  Art,'  published  in  connection  with  a  controversy 
upon  the  nature  of  poetry  which  went  on  in  the  Saturday  Daily  Express  in 
1899.  As  this  article  is  very  difficult  to  obtain  and  not  widely  known  we 
shall  quote  from  it  liberally. 

'  I  believe  that  the  renewal  of  belief,  which  is  the  great  movement  of 
our  time,  will  more  and  more  liberate  the  arts  from  "  their  age  "  and  from 
life,  and  leave  them  more  and  more  free  to  lose  themselves  in  beauty,  and 
to  busy  themselves,  like  all  the  great  poetry  of  the  past  and  like  religions 
of  all  times,  with  old  faiths,  myths,  dreams,  the  accumulated  beauty  of  the 
age.  I  believe  that  all  men  will  more  and  more  reject  the  opinion  that 
poetry  is  "  a  criticism  of  life,"  and  that  they  may  even  come  to  think  "  paint- 


JAMES  S.  SNODDY  89 

Ing  and  poetry  and  music  the  only  means  of  conversing  with  eternity  left 
to  man  on  earth."  I  believe,  too,  that,  though  a  Homer  or  a  Dante  or  a 
Shakespeare  may  have  used  all  knowledge,  whether  of  life  or  of  philosophy, 
or  of  mythology  or  of  history,  he  did  so,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  knowledge, 
but  to  shape  to  a  familiar  and  intelligible  body  a  something  he  had  seen 
or  experienced  in  the  exaltation  of  his  senses. 

'  I  believe,  too,  that  the  difference  between  good  and  bad  poetry  is  not 
in  its  preference  for  legendary,  or  for  unlegendary  subjects,  or  for  a  modern 
or  for  an  archaic  treatment,  but  in  the  volume  and  intensity  of  its  passion 
for  beauty  and  in  the  perfection  of  its  workmanship ;  and  that  all  criticism 
that  forgets  these  things  is  mischievous  and  doubly  mischievous  in  a  century 
of  unsettled  opinion.' 


SIDNEY  LANIER:  THE  POET  OF  SUNRISE 

By  James  S.  Snoddy 

IN  order  that  a  poet's  portrayal  of  an  object  in  nature  may  be  seen  and 
felt  it  is  best  for  him  not  to  give  a  complete  description;  as  a 
descriptive  poet  cannot  expect  us  to  accept  all  the  mass  of  details 
that  his  mood  sets  before  us.  We  have  our  own  ideals,  and  prefer 
to  form  our  own  estimates,  and  interpret  for  ourselves.  The  best 
effects,  therefore,  are  attained  by  giving  side-glimpses  of  the  object 
—  visualized  glimpses,  that  appeal  to  the  pictorial  imagination.  Of  this 
visualization  there  are  two  processes :  in  one  the  picture  is  complete  in  itself 
and  sometimes  reveals  ideal  beauty;  in  the  other  —  which  may  be  called  the 
'kindling'  process  —  we  have  not  a  complete  picture,  but  merely  a  hint  or 
sign,  by  which  we  may,  through  any  of  our  sense  perceptions,  construct  the 
whole  picture.  If  space  but  permitted  many  passages  could  be  quoted 
herein  that  would  readily  illustrate  how  Tennyson  has  by  visualization 
excelled  Wordsworth  and  Longfellow  in  portraying  sunrise.  By  the  '  kin- 
dling hint '  process  in  the  opening  of  '  The  Return  of  the  Druses,'  Browning 
has  one  line:  — 

'  The  moon  is  carried  off  in  purple  fire,' 


oo  SIDNEY  LANIER:  THE   POET  OF  SUNRISE 

which  sums  up  more  than  ordinary  descriptive  poets  give  us  in  entire  stanzas. 
Those  that  have  made  a  study  of  the  poetry  of  England  in  regard  to 
the  treatment  of  sunset  and  sunrise  maintain  that  there  arc  a  greater  number 
of  poets  that  have  written  on  sunset.  I  have  not  attempted  to  make  an 
extensive  examination  of  this  phase  of  the  treatment  of  nature  by  American 
poets;  but  in  turning  through  Griswold's  '  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America'  I 
find  ten  poems  on  evening,  sunset,  and  twilight;  while  only  five  on  morning, 
sunrise,  and  dawn.  Glancing,  too,  through  a  small  number  of  works  by 
Southern  writers  which  are  at  hand  I  find  fifteen  poems  pertaining  to  sunset, 
and  only  five  pertaining  to  sunrise.  If  by  further  investigation  we  could 
establish  the  same  fact  with  regard  to  American  poets  that  we  maintain 
regarding  the  poets  of  England  we  should  find  that  in  this  respect  Sidney 
Lanier  does  not  agree  with  the  majority  of  our  writers.  He  has  written 
three  poems  on  sunrise:  'Sunrise,'  'A  Sunrise  Song,'  and  'Between  Dawn 
and  Sunrise';  while,  on  the  other  hand,  but  two  pertaining  to  sunset: 
'Evening  Song'  and  'Marsh  Song  —  at  Sunset.'  In  addition  to  these 
poems  he  refers  to  sunrise,  morning,  or  dawn,  in  twenty-four  others;  and  to 
sunset,  evening,  or  twilight,  in  only  four.  Moreover,  some  of  his  best 
poems,  '  Corn '  and  'A  Florida  Sunday,'  were  evidently  composed  in  the 
morning  hours ;  and  in  '  Clover '  he  says : 

'  'Tis  a  perfect  hour. 
From  founts  of  dawn  the  fluent  autumn  day 
Has  rippled  as  a  brook  right  pleasantly 
Half-way  to  noon.' 

Lanier  is  pre-eminently  the  poet  of  sunrise.  When  he  delineates  the 
changes  and  varied  colors  of  the  morning  sky  we  find  in  his  word-painting 
a  richness,  glow,  and  splendor  that  is  not  surpassed  by  the  most  celebrated 
pen-pictures  given  us  by  Browning  in  his  delineations  of  sunrise,  or  by 
Shelley  in  his  exquisite  pictures  of  sunset.  Although  in  much  of  Lanier's 
poetry  there  is  evidence  of  a  sense  of  strain  and  effort  not  often  found  in  the 
lines  of  great  masters  like  Tennyson,  it  must  be  admitted  that  when  Lanier 
comes  out  before  daylight,  under  the  open  sky,  and  wanders  along  '  the 
dew-plashed  road,'  no  strain  nor  effort  is  manifest  in  his  portrayal  of  external 
nature ;  he  becomes  a  part  of  nature ;  it  is  not  external  to  him.  What  he  says, 
he  feels.     Lowell,  in  'Under  the  Willows,'  says  that  his  soul  '  danced  in  the 


JAMES  S.  SNODDY  91 

leaves.'  Lanier's  soul  would  have  danced  with  them  in  the  morning  hours, 
under  similiar  circumstances. 

No  painter  could  give  us  a  picture  of  sunrise  so  complete,  that  appeals 
to  our  feelings  so  effectively,  as  Lanier  gives  in  the  opening  lines  of  '  Corn,' 
where  the  trembling  woods  'melt  in  green,'  and  the  'dawn-stars  melt  in 
blue.'  The  kindling  hints  in  these  lines  appeal  not  only  to  our  senses  of 
sight  and  smell,  by  soft  tints  and  shades  of  color,  and  faint  waftings  of 
odor,  but  also  appeal  to  our  sense  of  hearing,  giving,  in  side-glimpses,  the 
most  delicate  sounds,  —  sounds  that  ears  not  attuned  to  the  '  music  of  nature  ' 
seldom  hear  save  through  the  intervention  and  interpretation  of  musicians. 
If  we  had  nothing  but  this  poem  its  picture  of  sunrise  would  be  sufficient  to 
convince  us  that  its  author  was  a  musician. 

Many  of  Lanier's  references  to  sunrise  are  also  kindling  hints  that 
appeal  to  the  ear :  in  '  Clover '  we  seem  to  hear  '  nimble  noises  that  with 
sunrise  ran';  in  'The  Waving  of  the  Corn,'  'sounds  that  mix  each  morn 
with  the  waving  of  the  corn  ' ;  in  '  June  Dreams  in  January,'  a  '  visible  Sigh 
out  of  the  mournful  East'  (impressionistic)  ;  and  in  'The  Mocking  Bird,' 
it  was  morning  when  the  bird  '  summ'd  the  woods  in  song.' 

But  the  most  excellent  hint  that  appeals  to  the  ear  is  the  one  in  '  Sun- 
rise,' where  the  '  too-tenuous  tissues  of  space  and  of  night '  are  '  oversated 
with  beauty  and  silence.'  He  does  not  tell  us  when  or  how  this  silence  is 
broken,  but  leaves  the  interpretation  to  us;  we  feel  a  noise  is  made,  but  not  a 
noise  that  can  be  described,  not  even  one  of  his  '  little  noises '  or  '  nimble 
noises';  it  is  a  noise  that  our  imaginations  realize  —  that  we  hear  with  our 
inner  ear.  In  contemplating  this  picture  of  dawn  we  see  beyond  the  picture, 
and,  by  emotional  inference,  see  the  portrayer  himself;  we  realize  how  one 
could  feel  with  an  ear  like  his  —  an  ear  capable  of  catching  such  delicate 
sounds,  and  thus  have,  at  first  hand,  experiences  of  '  Revelatory  Truth.' 

In  the  '  Sunrise '  there  are  other  kindling  hints  which,  by  means  of 
motion,  appeal  to  us  through  our  sense-perceptions.  At  the  same  time  that 
the  indescribable  sound  is  made,  there  is  also  a  motion : 

'  But  no:  it  is  made:  list!  somewhere,  mystery,  where? 

In  the  leaves?  in  the  air? 
In  my  heart?     Is  a  motion  made: 
'Tis  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of  shade  on  shade.' 


92  SIDNEY  LANIER:  THE   POET  OF  SUNRISE 

There  arc  other  references  to  sunrise  where  the  hints  are  made  by  means 
of  motion:  in  'Symphony'  the  mountain  fawns  'tremble  if  the  day  but 
dawn';  in  '  Jacquerie  '  a  figure  is  used  where  blood  is  represented  leaping 
'As  a  hart  upon  the  river-banks  at  morn  ';  and  in  the  passages  quoted  above 
from  'Clover'  and  'The  Waving  of  the  Corn,'  motion,  in  connection  with 
sound,  helps  to  complete  the  picture. 

The  best  pictures  that  are  set  forth  through  kindling  hints  by  means 
of  color  are  found  in  'My  Springs';  here  heaven  and  earth  are  'shot 
through  with  lights  of  stars  and  dawns ';  and  in  'A  Florida  Sunday,'  in  con- 
nection with  sound  and  motion,  we  are  made  to  see  the  pea-green  paroquets, 
to  hear  their  calls,  and  to  see  their  'quick  flights  from  green  to  green';  in 
'  Corn,'  to  which  reference  has  already  been  made,  the  woods  '  melt  in  green 
as  dawn-stars  melt  in  blue.' 

Bryant,  the  most  popular  nature-poet  of  America,  is,  in  his  treatment 
of  sunset  and  sunrise,  the  antithesis  of  Lanier.  In  reading  a  few  of  his 
poems  that  pertain  to  sunset,  —  as  'A  Walk  at  Sunset,'  '  The  Evening  Wind,' 
'An  Evening  Reverie,'  and  'May  Evening,' —  we  are  convinced  that  the 
morning  hour  was  not  a  favorite  theme  with  him. 

'  Give  me  one  hour  to  hymn  the  setting  sun  ' 

is  his  appeal  to  his  poetic  muse.     In  his  estimation  the  sun's  '  setting  smiles ' 
were  '  loveliest.'     Nature  had  most  charms  for  him  at  the  hour  when 

' the  weary  bee.  .  .  . 

Rests  in  his  waxen  room,' 
and 

'  Every  hovering  insect  to  his  place 

Beneath  the  leaves  hath  flown.' 

Whitman,  another  American  poet  who  loved  nature,  seldom  referred 
to  sunrise  in  his  poetry.  Like  Bryant,  he  loved  better  the  evening  hours. 
In  '  Twilight '  he  speaks  of 

'  The  soft  voluptuous  opiate  shades  ' 

that  appeared  when  the  sun  had  'just  gone,'  and  when  the  'eager  light' 
had  been  '  dispelled  ' ;  and  in  'A  Prairie  Sunset '  he  tells  us  of  the 


JAMES  S.  SNODDY  93 

1  Pure  luminous  color  fighting  the  silent  shadows  to  the  last.' 

But  Whitman's  sunset  sky,  beautiful  and  sublime  as  it  is,  is  surpassed 
by  the  calm  solemnity  of  his  night  sky;  in  his  '  Song  of  Myself  '  he  says: 

'  I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night, 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 
Press  close  bare-bosom'd  night  —  press  close  magnetic  nourishing  night! ' 

Among  American  poets  Bryant  is  the  poet  of  the  evening  sky;  Whit- 
man of  the  night  sky.  But  Lanier  is  the  poet  of  the  morning  sky.  Further, 
he  is  pre-eminently  the  poet  of  the  day  sky.  He  manifests  more  interest 
in  the  sky  as  seen  by  day  than  in  that  seen  by  night.  In  this  respect  he  is 
not  only  the  antithesis  of  Whitman,  but  of  Keats.  Keats  has  been  called 
the  'moon  poet'  of  England;  Lanier  could  well  be  called  the  '  sun  poet'  of 
America. 

Although  Lanier  stands  pre-eminently  above  all  American  writers  as 
poet  of  the  day  sky  and  of  sunrise  there  are  several  among  our  verse-writers 
of  lesser  fame  that  deserve  commendation.  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  in 
'  Cloud  Fancies,'  '  The  May  Sky,'  and  '  Cloud  Pictures ' ;  and  Amelia  B. 
Welby  in  her  exquisite  little  poem,  '  The  Rainbow,'  have  portrayed  the  day 
sky  in  no  mean  way.  Richard  Watson  Gilder  in  '  New  Day  '  gives  a  pleas- 
ing picture  of  the  morning  sky : 

1  Slowly,  within  the  East,  there  grew  a  light 
Which  half  was  star-light,  and  half  seemed  to  be 
The  herald  of  a  greater.     The  pale  white 
Turned  slowly  to  pale  rose,  and  up  the  height 
Of  heaven  slowly  climbed.     The  gray  sea  grew 
Rose-colored  like  the  sky.' 

But  contrast  this  with  Lanier's  picture  in  '  Sunrise ' : 

'And  lo,  in  the  East !     Will  the  East  unveil? 
The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  confessed 
A  flush:  'tis  dead;  'tis  alive;  'tis  dead,  ere  the  West 
Was  aware  of  it:  nay,  'tis  abiding,  'tis  unwithdrawn : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven !     'Tis  Dawn.' 


94  SIDNEY  LANIER:  THE   POET   OF  SUNRISE 

In  the  former  we  have  a  description;  the  writer  tells  us  that  the  colors 
arc  'pale  white,'  'pale  rose,'  'gray,'  and  '  rosc-colorcd.'  In  reading  this 
poem  we  feel  that  Gilder  is  forcing  his  interpretations  upon  us.  Lanier 
does  not  do  this;  he  appeals  indirectly  to  us;  gives  us  hints,  and  leaves  the 
interpretation  to  us.  We  are  made  to  feel  that  the  '  East  is  unveiled  '  —  that 
it  is  dawn;  we  need  not  be  told  of  the  colors  of  his  morning  sky;  they  are 
there.  Again,  Gilder  tells  us  three  times,  in  these  few  lines,  that  the  changes 
ill  color  took,  place  '  slowly.'  Lanier  does  not  interpret  the  change  for  us 
—  does  not  tell  us  how  the  change  took  place;  in  a  subtle  way  he  makes  us 
feel  that  there  was  a  change  in  the  color  of  the  eastern  sky,  which  happened 
'  ere  the  West  was  aware  of  it.'  In  his  treatment  of  sunrise  Gilder  is  inter- 
pretative; Lanier,  revelatory.     Lanier's  touch  is  the  touch  of  an  artist. 

Although  he  was  not  in  every  respect  as  great  a  poet  as  others  that  have 
been  quoted  in  this  paper,  or  even  as  great  a  nature-poet  as  some,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  in  his  treatment  of  sunrise  he  has  uniqueness,  —  a  subtle 
quality  not  surpassed  by  other  poets.  Browning,  for  example,  in  his  visual- 
ized presentations  of  sunrise,  although  beautiful  and  impressive,  used  them 
primarily  as  backgrounds  upon  which  he  delineated  human  character.  After 
reading  the  opening  stanza  of  '  The  Return  of  the  Druses '  we  forget  the 
gorgeous  coloring  of  the  Oriental  scene,  and  turn  our  attention  unconsciously 
to  the  study  of  the  characteristics  of  the  Syrian  people.  In  the  first  stanza 
of  '  Pippa  Passes '  our  sympathies  are  turned  to  the  poor  '  little  silk-winding 
girl,'  in  whose  welfare  we  become  so  interested  that  we  lose  sight  of  the  beau- 
tiful Italian  sunrise  as  the  day 

'  Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim.' 

In  their  treatment  of  sunrise  Tennyson  and  other  great  poets,  like 
Browning,  have  used  it  as  a  means  to  accomplish  other  purposes.  Lanier 
portrayed  sunrise  for  its  own  sake;  in  this  respect  he  excelled  them  all. 


A 


ODE  ON  THE   HEIGHTS. 

By  Arthur  Franklin  Johnson 

LL  of  the  Cosmos  mortal  sight  may  see 

I  look  on  here,  to  worship  or  defy. 

O  winds  of  Heaven !    ye  may  vainly  try 
To  humble  me  from  this  my  majesty ! 
I  hold  the  secret  of  a  hundred  miles, 
And  arrogantly  confident  I  scan 

The  encircling  gulf,  the  far-flung  purple  ways 
O'er  which  the  daylight  smiles, 
Even  as  a  God  may  view  his  monstrous  plan 

And  hearken  while  above  him  Heaven  sways. 

Grey  wisps  of  vapour  like  old  memories  float 

Over  the  valley,  hills,  and  waving  trees. 
Aloft,  the  sun-tipped,  swirling  clouds  denote 

The  ecstasy  which  now  my  spirit  frees 
From  the  dull  conflict  of  that  lower  stream 
Where  thronging  multitudes  must  fight  to  live. 

Grey  mists  of  sorrow  I  have  left  below  — 
And  this  the  mighty  dream 
Which  the  high  gods  to  weary  mortals  give 

For  one  brief  interval  before  we  go ! 

Once  I  behold,  I  cannot  stoop  again 

To  mingle  with  the  ignominy  there. 

In  the  blue  presence  of  this  upper  air 
Let  me  at  last  forget  the  ignoble  pain, 
And  'mid  the  winds  that  here  unceasing  croon 
And  ripple  with  the  pulses  of  earth's  course, 

Laugh  on  forever  with  the  large  contempt 
Apollo  wears  at  noon, 
Merging  this  Self  in  the  eternal  Source 

Of  all  that  changes  —  from  all  change  exempt ! 

Above  the  chorus  by  the  clear  winds  blown 
A  voice  thrills,  softly  but  so  audibly, 

As  if  with  faint  aerial  overtone 

The  skies'  remotest  regions  called  to  me : 

And  I  would  answer,  breathless  with  the  thought 

Which  the  new  splendour  of  this  height  inspires  — 

(95) 


96  ODE  ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

The  poignant  joyousneas  of  magnitude 
By  these  large  spaces  taught  — 
Would  fain  be  but  a  voice  drowned  in  the  choirs 
That  sing  forever  1  leaven's  infinitude. 

Through  the  unending  vault  the  sunlight  sings; 
I  he  wheeling  clouds  in  echoed  radiance 

Join  with  the  hills  in  the  great  consonance 
That  to  my  kindled  heart  a  knowledge  brings 
Of  perfect  beauty  that  can  never  die, 
Of  passion  that  is  never  satiate, 

Mid  melodies  which  evermore  sustain 
The  arches  of  the  sky. 
Oh,  why,  my  soul,  if  mortal,  so  elate? 

And  where,  if  I  must  suffer,  is  my  pain? 

Earth's  gracious  vistas  overflow  my  sight, 

Deep  in  my  heart  their  vernal  promise  sinking; 
And  as  it  homeward  wings  from  its  long  flight 

I  meet  the  challenge  of  my  soul  unshrinking. 
Wild  spirits  of  the  air  with  silver  breath 
Seem  luring  me  along  to  where  outspread 

The  endless  glories  of  the  vast  abyss. 
Is  this  the  way  to  death? 
With  Peace  and  Silence  beckoning  ahead, 

And  the  warm  imprint  of  a  mocking  kiss? 

I  taste  the  passion  of  eternal  wine 

Mellowed  in  depths  of  unbegotten  years, 
While  in  the  golden  mist  about  me  shine 

The  wraiths  of  long  forgotten  hopes  and  fears; 
Half  frenzied  with  its  glow  I  hurl  the  boast 
From  this  high  Pisgah :    All  is  mine  to  take ! 

And  breast  the  menace  of  Infinity. 
But  oh,  the  ashen  ghost 
Of  a  pure  dawn,  never,  alas,  to  break! 

And  oh,  the  echoed  sob  of  history! 


ON  THE  STAGING  OF  PARSIFAL 

By  George  Turner  Phelps 

'When  'Omer  smote  'is  bloomin'  lyre, 

He'd  'eard  men  sing  by  land  an'  sea; 
An'  what  he  thought  '  e  might  require, 
'E  went  an'  took  —  the  same  as  me!' 

'  The  Seven  Seas. 

FROM  the  day  of  seven-eyed  Homer  to  that  of  Kundry-eyed 
Kipling,  the  intellectual  world  has  drawn  more  deeply  than  is 
ever  wholly  realized,  of  the  common  heritage  from  Greece. 
Opera,  from  its  Florentine  birth  as  attempted  revival  of  Greek 
dramatic  art,  again  and  again  has  been  recreated  by  a  breath 
from  the  same  inspiring  source,  even  down  to  its  apparent  lifting 
entirely  out  of  its  own  nature  by  Richard  Wagner. 

Perhaps  no  other  single  genius  has  reminted  so  large  a  share  of  the 
common  exchange  of  human  experience  coined  in  concrete  art-expression 
as  Wagner  has  done.  It  would  be  interesting  to  study  how  much  he  knew 
of  the  actual  working  conditions  of  the  old  Greek  stage.  The  Dionysiac 
Theatre  at  Athens  was  first  known  to  the  modern  world,  when  half  of  the 
Ring  dramas  and  Tristan  were  already  written,  its  Greek  form,  only  since 
his  death.  Did  he  see  back  to  Greek  conditions  through  knowledge  of 
Roman  changes  and  debasements?  Did  he,  quite  aside  from  archaeology, 
by  sheer  imagination,  recreate  the  actual  visual  effect  of  literary  theatric 
treasures  beneath  his  eyes?  Even  this  latter  suggestion  is  by  no  means  im- 
probable, for  Wagner's  imagination  was  singularly  Greek:  not  necessarily  in 
un-Teutonic  demand  of  beauty  or  of  subtle  exquisiteness,  in  detail;  but  in  its 
power  of  selecting  and  combining  detail  into  a  unity  so  concrete,  so  simple 
in  effect  that,  although  his  complex  of  elaborated  parts  is  on  the  scale  of 
inexhaustible  German  scholarship,  and  his  concrete  unit  requires  some  six 
hours  of  attention  and  memory  for  a  single  whole  impression,  yet  the  one 
object  in  all  the  world  of  art  with  which  his  '  Parsifal '  is  comparable  is  of 

Mr.  Phelps  has  recently  published  'Parsifal:  An  English  Text  for  the  Score,' 
together  with  the  first  German  stage  version  of  the  poem,  through  The  Gorham  Press, 
Boston. 

Copyright  1904  by  George  Turner  Phelps. 

(97) 


98  ON    IIII.   STAGING   OF   PARSIFAL 

the  finest  flower  of  ( i reck  imagination,  the  Parthenon. 

Did  lie  rediscover  old  principles  of  physical  sight,  and  apply  them  to 
new  conditions?  Did  he  instinctively  grasp  necessary  conditions  of  physical 
sight,  under  certain  new  conditions  which,  contradictory  as  they  may  seem, 
merely  paralleled  those  of  former  times?  What  was  the  peculiar  quality 
of  his  imagination  which  renders  him  unique  in  history.-' 

His  mind  was  of  philosophic  bent,  but  he  was  not  a  philosopher.  His 
image-making  faculty  saw,  not  abstract  ideas,  not  illustrations  of  abstract 
ideas,  not  types,  but  human  beings  who  felt  ideas  as  emotions,  and  who  ex- 
pressed these  emotions  by  speech  and  gesture,  by  look  and  action.  That  is, 
he  was  first  and  foremost  a  dramatist.  Again,  his  plastic  creatures  he  saw 
singly  and  in  related  groups.  He  was  a  sculptor.  He  saw  his  sculpture  in 
relation  with  buildings  and  with  landscape.  He  was  architect  and  painter. 
Most  unusual  of  all,  as  musician,  he  heard  these  correlated  simultaneous 
phenomena  and  their  inter-relations  expressing  themselves  to  his  ear  in  terms 
of  musical  sounds,  an  audible  psychologic  atmosphere  quickening  all  things, 
as  the  long,  slant  gold  of  afternoon  kindles  the  commonplace  to  poetry. 

This  five-fold  unity  of  imagination,  leaving,  in  concrete  expression,  the 
impression  of  drama  in  and  for  itself  alone,  has  never  been  approached. 

There  are  three  Parsifals:  —  Richard  Wagner's,  which,  perhaps,  has 
gone  forever;  Cosima  Wagner's,  the  same  in  physical  conditions,  but,  if 
credible  witnesses  are  to  be  believed,  a  very  different  creation  in  its  appeal 
to  the  eye;  and  Cosima  Wagner's  adapted  to  the  physical  conditions  of  the 
American  theatre. 

This  paper,  suggestive  rather  than  exhaustive,  deals  not  at  all  Avith 
the  musical  appeal  to  the  ear,  but  with  the  two  contrasted  sets  of  physical 
conditions,  those  of  the  Bayreuth  and  of  the  American  theatres,  and  with 
the  appeal  to  the  eye. 

The  Greek  dramatist  and  the  Greek  audience  saw  the  drama  out  of 
doors,  by  diffused  daylight,  as  sculpture,  groups  or  masses  of  plastic 
figures,  dissolving  and  recombining  upon  a  circular  pavement  (orchestra), 
in  more  or  less  intimate  relation  with  a  simple  architectural  background 
(proscenium),  which  was  built  as  a  tangent  to  the  farther  side  of  the  circle, 
offering  conventional  entrances  and  serving,  not  as  scenery,  but  rather  to  give 
definite  boundary  to  the  field  of  vision. 

It  was  somewhat  as  though,  in  a  semicircular  theatre  with  an  '  orchestra 


GEORGE  TURNER  PHELPS  99 

circle,'  the  action  took  place  in  the  'orchestra'  (not  the  musicians'  space) 
cleared  of  seats;  the  'proscenium,'  instead  of  being  the  curtain-arch,  was  a 
low  wall  with  three  doors,  marking  the  background  (open  landscape  be- 
yond) ;  and  each  seat  in  the  'house,'  rising  tier  on  tier,  looked  down  upon 
the  actors.  By  this  arrangement,  at  all  times,  each  person  in  the  audience 
saw  the  entire  sweep  of  the  space  in  which  the  actor  stood,  within  either 
his  conscious  or  his  unconscious  field  of  vision,  —  directly,  or  '  with  the  tail 
of  his  eye.'  That  is,  as  the  spectator  sat  below  or  above,  the  stage-group, 
focused  with  relation  to  the  center  of  the  circle  or  toward  the  '  proscenium,' 
was  always  arranged  to  fall  within  either  the  line  of  vision  perpendicular 
to  the  horizon  or  that  parallel  with  the  plane  of  vision.  In  either  case 
was  followed  the  sight-principle  that  the  wider  field  of  definite  vision  (the 
'  infield')  is  the  vertical,  since  in  that  case  the  range  of  both  eyes  is  prac- 
tically the  same,  while  the  coincident  portion  of  the  two  horizontal  ranges 
is  comparatively  small,  and,  consequently,  the  indefinite,  or  '  outfield,'  large. 

In  spite  of  the  raised  stage,  the  theatric  conditions  of  the  Elizabethan 
period  were  very  like  those  of  the  Greek  Dionysiac  theatre.  Shakspere 
and  his  audience,  for  instance,  saw  the  drama  from  several  sides,  in  diffused 
daylight,  not  in  a  series  of  pictures,  but  as  sculpture,  the  effect  depending 
upon  the  vertical  sight-principle. 

In  building  his  Bayreuth  theatre,  Wagner  faced  the  problem  of  an  in- 
door audience  which  must  see  the  drama  by  artificial  light,  from  one  side 
of  an  elevated  stage,  both  as  sculpture  and  also  within  a  picture.  He  seized 
upon  the  two  sight-principles  of  the  Greeks,  making  his  stage-arch  narrow 
in  proportion  to  its  height,  to  keep  the  whole  width  of  the  picture  within 
the  vision,  and  his  stage  itself  deep,  since  only  decrease  of  size  by  distance 
renders  objects  indistinct  in  the  '  infield.'  To  keep  the  sculpture  within  the 
whole  picture  for  each  spectator,  he  built  his  auditorium  without  balconies, 
with  the  stage  floor  visible  from  the  lowest  tier  of  seats  (if  published  dia- 
grams and  elevations  are  trustworthy),  and  with  the  uppermost  tier  only 
at  half  the  height  of  the  arch. 

For  an  object  to  be  seen  within  a  picture  instead  of  against  it,  the  object 
must  stand  beyond  a  wide  foreground,  visible  or  imagined.  His  space  from 
front  tier  to  curtain  is  a  full  fourth  of  the  depth  of  the  auditorium,  and, 
beyond  the  curtain,  an  equal  space  is  left  before  the  actual  scene  begins  with 
the  slope  of  the  stage  floor.    Another  factor  in  the  result  is  the  architectural 


ioo  ON  THE  STAGING  OF  PARSIFAL 

arrangement  of  the  wedge-shaped  house,  to  look  as  though  the  stage  frame 
were  merely  a  section  smaller  in  si/.e  because  considerably  removed  along  a 
rectangular  hall.  Again,  as  a  landscape  is  wider  than  the  window-opening, 
and  a  picture  spreads  on  either  hand  behind  its  frame,  the  scene  is  actually 
wider  than  the  arch.  Lastly,  the  entire  stage  is  about  one  and  one-half 
times  the  full  depth  of  the  auditorium  (the  half  generally  unused!)  Thus 
by  sight  and  by  imagination,  from  side  to  side  of  the  house,  the  sculpture 
is  set  within  the  whole  picture  as  within  the  Dionysiac  circle. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  the  similarity  in  function  of  the  Wagner 
orchestra,  and  its  possible  connection  with  the  Greek  chorus,  lie  quite  be- 
yond the  scope  of  this  paper. 

So  much  for  the  physical  conditions  under  which  Parsifal  is  given  at 
Bayreuth.  On  the  other  hand,  in  the  American  theatre  the  stage  must  be 
shallow  enough  to  show  at  least  a  suggestion  of  the  picture  to  a  spectator 
seated  not  only  above  the  level  of  the  arch,  but  also  above  that  of  the  very 
ceiling.  Even  though  the  arch  itself  be  high,  it  is  seldom  wholly  used,  as 
the  picture  must  be  planned  for  breadth,  since  the  overhanging  balconies  cut 
the  scene.  The  scene  must  fill  every  inch  to  the  curtain,  the  curtain  must 
be  as  near  as  possible  to  the  front  row  of  seats,  and  the  front  orchestra  tiers 
must  see  no  stage  floor  to  base  the  picture. 

Under  such  conditions,  masses  of  people  must  be  spread  from  side  to 
side  instead  of  from  front  to  rear.  They  can  no  longer  be  seen  at  one 
glance,  and  the  spectator's  eyes,  at  least,  must  be  turned.  Instantly  there  is 
no  grouping  of  sculpture  within  a  visible  space  or  within  a  picture.  The 
field  of  movement  for  a  single  figure  is  at  once  restricted,  else  there  is  con- 
stant change  of  relation  with  fragments  of  background,  or  the  figure  is 
alternately  within  and  against  the  picture;  in  the  latter  case  the  picture  at 
once  is  as  wholly  obliterated  as  though  a  curtain  had  shut  it  from  sight. 
The  continual  readjustment  of  vision  thus  forced  upon  the  spectator  is  so 
familiar  as  to  be  quite  unnoticed.  Yet  it  deprives  an  audience  of  one  chief 
source  of  theatric  delight,  the  '  production,'  singularly  enough  the  very 
thing  for  which  theatre-goers  clamor  and  pay. 

What  would  be  left  for  the  eye  in  producing  Parsifal  under  other  than 
Bayreuth  conditions?  Two  experiments  have  been  made,  both  in  America, 
one  practically  a  compressed  duplicate  of  the  other.  Mr.  Heinrich  Conried, 
with  the  greater  actual  spaces  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  stage  at 


GEORGE  TURNER  PHELPS  101 

his  command,  though  under  exactly  similar  conditions,  perhaps  made  a  less 
hampered  attempt  than  the  undertaking  on  the  lesser  scale,  one  more  readily 
compared  with  the  original.  On  the  other  hand,  the  lesser  scale  involved 
either  greater  triumph  or  greater  disaster  in  the  result. 

Mr.  Henry  W.  Savage  presented  Parsifal  in  English  at  the  Tremont 
Theatre  in  Boston.  Some  comparisons  in  terms  of  seats  may  be  of  value. 
The  stage  arch  at  Bayreuth  is  twenty-two  seats  wide  (without  aisles)  ;  of 
the  Tremont  (filling  the  aisles)  practically  twenty-three.  That  is  to  say, 
the  frames  of  the  two  pictures  are  not  very  far  from  the  same  size,  the  one 
a  little  wider  than  square,  the  other  a  trifle  higher  than  square.  Bayreuth 
has  thirty  rows  of  seats;  the  floor  of  the  Tremont,  if  the  standing-room  were 
filled,  nearly  the  same,  Bayreuth  being  some  ten  seats  wider.  From  the 
second  row  in  the  first  balcony,  which  is  just  about  midway  of  the  Bayreuth 
audience,  the  stage  is  seen  from  the  height  of  the  Bayreuth  top  row. 

From  a  seat  chosen  for  the  purpose,  then,  Parsifal  could  be  seen  under 
Bayreuth  audience  conditions,  with  all  illusion  from  a  distant  stage  picture, 
and  from  actual  stage  distances,  totally  eliminated.  Screening  everything 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  picture,  even  from  the  '  tail  of  his  eye,'  by  deliberate 
trick  upon  his  own  brain,  the  spectator  actually  could  hear  Bayreuth-wise 
sufficiently  to  eliminate  mental  distraction  by  difference  in  orchestral  effect. 

In  scene  one  of  Acts  I  and  III,  the  shallow  stage  makes  no  necessary 
impossibility  of  preserving  the  group  within  the  picture ;  especially  in  the 
latter  case,  where,  by  clever  planning,  the  actual  picture  can  be  reduced  to 
less  than  half  the  stage  width.  Moreover,  the  absurdities  of  the  condensed 
setting  are  so  palpable  as  to  make  no  trouble.  However,  it  does  make  great 
difficulty  for  the  actor  to  keep  within  the  sense  of  the  situation.  The  au- 
dience must  not  be  taken  into  his  confidence,  and  he  must  constantly  remem- 
ber that  a  step  or  two  one  way  or  the  other,  by  taking  him  wholly  out  from 
the  narrow  perspective  angle  or  by  isolating  him  against  a  bit  of  the  scenery, 
may  break  one  effective  picture  into  two  wholly  unrelated  and  meaningless 
ones.  Again,  he  must  not  forget  that  frequently  his  back  is  of  more  im- 
portance than  his  face.  Let  him  discover  and  ponder  the  dismembering 
havoc  wrought  by  a  similar  oversight  in  the  paintings  of  Mr.  Abbey's 
'  Quest  of  the  Holy  Grail.' 

Fortunately,  of  the  panorama  in  Acts  I  and  III  the  shallow  stage, 
within  hand-grasp,  makes  absolute  wreckage.     The  unintelligent  spectator 


io2  ON  THE  STAGING  Of    PARSIFAL 

giggles,  relapses  into  conversation  (blessed  relief!),  after  respectful  atten- 
tion remarks,  when  the  lights  are  turned  on,  '  I  really  didn't  care  much  for 
the  moving  scenery.' 

At  first  Mush  it  is  so  delightfully  absurd,  in  spite  of  the  musical  prepa- 
ration and  of  the  dialogue.  But  this  is  its  sole  salvation.  Watch  it,  and 
the  total  absence  of  illusion  leaves  the  mind  free  to  be  carried  with  the 
flow  of  tone  and  color  and  form.  There  is  no  half  good  about  it,  like  a 
rusty  nail  to  tear  attention  into  thoughts.  Of  course  it  is  not  Wagner's 
whole  effect,  but  a  moment's  comparison  with  the  curtain  (blank  or  worse 
for  the  purpose  than  blank)  during  Siegfried's  dead  march  between  the 
last  scenes  of  '  Gotterdammerung '  on  any  stage  save  Bayreuth,  will  leave 
no  need  for  justification. 

Quite  as  fortunately,  since  it  has  the  full  depth  of  the  stage,  the  temp- 
tation scene  of  Act  II  suffers  nothing  necessarily.  The  flower-girl  chorus 
can  be  kept  wholly  within  the  vision  by  forgetting,  for  a  brief  hour,  the 
all-dominant  musical-comedy  dozens,  and  by  not  arranging  it  across  the 
stage,  from  post  to  post  of  the  arch,  in  the  footlight  glare.  Even  were  the 
eye  wide  as  the  proscenium,  happily  it  is  not  fatal  to  the  spectacle  not  to 
see  all  of  every  girl  all  the  time.  Then,  too,  the  chief  actors  have  plenty 
of  space  for  related  movement  within  the  range  of  the  actual  picture,  and 
do  not  need  to  walk  out  from  it  to  console  the  lonely  ghost  of  the  operatic 
prompter's  hood. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  Temple  scenes  of  Acts  I  and  III,  full-staged 
as  they  are,  the  elaborate  effect  of  the  moving  processions  is  inevitably  cut 
down  to  a  mere  suggestion.  But,  oddly  enough,  the  effect  of  the  Temple 
itself  does  not  suffer  in  the  smaller  scale.  The  Bayreuth  Temple  gains  its 
lift  and  height  of  dome  from  the  spectator's  comparison  of  spaces  actually 
seen;  the  American  audience  reasons,  at  once,  the  depth  and  the  reach  of 
unseen  spaces  from  actual  height  and  sweep  of  dome. 

Enough  has  already  been  said,  at  least  to  suggest  that  the  American 
reproduction  may  be  a  very  beautiful  Parsifal,  and  one  quite  true  to  the 
drama,  while  yet  totally  distinct  in  stage  appearance  and  effect  from  Cosima 
Wagner's  Parsifal  at  Bayreuth :  so  distinct,  indeed,  that  neither  injures 
the  other;  quite  the  contrary,  that  each  heightens  the  effect  of  the  other 
by  making  possible  their  comparative  criticism. 

There  yet  remains  for  consideration,  the  first  scene  of  Act  II,  that  in 


GEORGE  TURNER  PHELPS  103 

Klingsor's  Castle,  which  opens  a  new  series  of  problems.  Absurd  as  the 
management  of  both  Kundry  and  Klingsor  remained  to  the  last  in  Boston, 
the  scene  itself  was  the  most  obvious  illustration  of  the  scope  of  Mr.  Savage's 
undertaking;  and  to  watch  its  treatment  would  have  delighted  the  heart 
of  Richard  Wagner  himself,  who  used  to  be  on  the  stage  much  of  the  time 
of  performance,  studying  possible  changes  in  detail  of  every  kind.  During 
the  entire  two  weeks,  this  scene  presented  a  series  of  surprising  changes  in 
detail,  in  color-scheme,  in  distance.  From  a  picture  quite  out  of  keeping 
with  the  whole  series,  it  was  fashioned  into  one  which,  however  contradictory 
to  the  stage  directions,  yet  filled  its  place  in  the  American  Cosima  scheme. 

Just  what  is  the  Cosima  Wagner  Parsifal  in  its  appeal  to  the  eye,  apart 
from  physical  conditions  of  stage  and  auditorium,  that  is,  with  respect  to 
costumes,  scenery,  and  stage  effects  ? 

First  of  all,  it  would  be  interesting  to  know  the  exact  relation  between 
the  two  American  productions.  Are  they  merely  successive  adaptations 
of  similar  material  from  the  same  Berlin  sources?  At  least  they  are  so 
closely  related  that  Mr.  Savage  sells  as  his  souvenirs  post-card  reproductions 
of  photographs  of  Mr.  Conried's  stage-settings.  Are  the  two  ■  Produc- 
tions '  sketched  by  the  same  hands  which  furnish  forth  the  present  Bayreuth 
stage  pictures  ? 

Mr.  Savage  says  in  his  printed  prospectus:  'While  he  [Mr.  Savage] 
has  been  scrupulously  careful  to  carry  out  to  the  smallest  detail  the  wishes 
of  Wagner/  etc.,  he  has  bettered  them  in  the  matter  of  electricity  for  light- 
ing; also,  'The  costumes  were  made  from  sketches  designed  after  Bayreuth 
models  by  the  best  men  in  Berlin.    They  are  correct  in  the  smallest  details.' 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  special  Klingsor  scene  flatly  contradicts  the 
stage  directions  for  scenery  and  action  printed  in  the  German  score,  and  it 
is  by  no  means  alone.  Moreover,  the  costumes  are  frankly  entirely  at  vari- 
ance with  photographs  of  Bayreuth  performances  even  so  long  after  Wag- 
ner's death  as  1889. 

To  quote  Mr.  Savage  once  more:  'He  [Mr.  Savage]  has  had  the 
best  technical  and  artistic  advice  that  can  be  procured.  .  .  .  His 
decorations,  scenic  effects,  costumes,  and  the  like  are  the  work  of  the  best  de- 
signers, men  familiar  with  the  demands  of  the  music-drama  and  with  condi- 
tions at  Bayreuth.  .  .  .  His  stage-manager  is  a  man  of  great  reputa- 
tion in  Germany,  who  is  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  traditions  of  the 


io4  ON   THE  STAGING  OF   PARSIFAL 

Bayreuth  Festival  Theatre.1 

Deliberately,  in  every  way,  the  impression  has  been  given  that  Parsifal 
in  America  reproduces  to  the  eye,  so  nearly  as  possible,  Parsifal  at  Bay- 
reuth—  by  tlie  way,  Bayreuth  previous  to  if;«>4.  Parsifal  in  America  makes 
the  supreme  impression  of  a  wonderful  whole,  yet  a  whole  distinctly  different 
from  its  Bayreuth  model.  But  to  the  eye  its  Bayreuth  model  is  a  totally 
different  whole  from  that  of  the  original  production,  and  from  the  demands 
of  the  printed  score  left  by  the  creating  genius. 

It  is  often  said,  '  If  Shakspere  were  alive  today,  he  would  make  use 
of  all  the  resources  of  the  modern  stage.'  It  seems  never  to  occur  to  the 
sayers  that  his  dramas  would  be  in  form  quite  different  from  that  which 
has  come  down  to  us.  A  swift  and  unbroken  succession  of  groups  of  living 
sculpture  shifting  and  changing  within  a  given  space,  is  an  absolutely  dif- 
ferent problem  from  that  of  a  series  of  such  groups  isolated  in  rigid  pictures 
separated  by  time  intervals.  While  Shakspere  was  a  dramatist,  he  was 
a  dramatist  for  the  eye;  that  is,  he  worked  for  theatric  conditions  as  he 
knew  them,  or  as  he  could  make  them :  he  was  that  special  species  of  drama- 
tist—  the  theatrist. 

The  essence  of  Creative  Art  begins  to  evaporate  just  so  soon  as,  in  any 
degree,  dependence  is  necessary  upon  a  less  or  a  differently  creative  mind. 
The  testimony  as  to  what  Frau  Wagner  gives  the  eye  at  Bayreuth  is  flatly 
contradictory.  In  the  sweep  of  such  overwhelming  emotional  experience 
the  memory  of  occasional  eye-witnesses  is  practically  valueless,  unless  each 
has  planned  intelligently  beforehand  to  study  certain  definite  phenomena. 
Even  then  dates  must  be  known  and  compared.  Again,  singularly  little 
evidence  is  to  be  found  in  books. 

On  the  other  hand,  against  the  witness  of  the  American  productions, 
some  surprising  and  unexpected  proof  is  offered,  even  by  that  extraordinarily 
misleading  'Wagner's  Parsifal  as  retold  by  Oliver  Huckel,'  a  volume  so 
charming  in  its  appearance,  while  so  successfully  and,  wholly  against  the 
author's  effort  and  intention,  so  hopelessly  misrepresenting  the  drama. 

Moreover,  the  equally  extraordinary  series  of  paintings  by  Marcius- 
Simons  adds  direct  corroborative  testimony,  in  the  same  line,  to  the  fact 
that  Frau  Wagner's  color  scheme  is  not  that  of  the  American  productions. 
Simons  claims  help  from  the  Bayreuth  stage,  even  in  certain  cases  to  the 
extent  of  direct  reproduction;  also  direct  inspiration  in  meanings  and  inter- 


GEORGE  TURNER  PHELPS  105 

pretation  from  Siegfried  Wagner  and  his  mother,  especially  the  latter.  He 
has  a  vivid  emotional  response  to  the  discovery  of  certain  means  by  which 
Wagner  produced  certain  effects,  but  no  appreciation  whatever  of  the 
intellectual  process  by  which  the  means  were  made  to  serve  their  end.  The 
inaccuracy  of  mental  habit  displayed  in  the  artist's  own  works,  and  in  his 
writing  about  them,  inspires  only  distrust.  Yet  Frau  Wagner  sets  her  seal 
upon  his  interpretations,  in  direct  contradiction  to  the  poem  and  the  specific 
stage  directions.  At  once  the  query  4  rises,  whether  the  devotion  of  the 
woman  to  the  man  may  have  had  its  thorny  side  for  the  creative  artist,  in 
a  surprising  inability  to  seize  and  to  hold  his  artist  point  of  view? 

However,  all  classes  of  evidence  inescapably  force  the  conclusion  that, 
whatever  Cosima's  point  of  view  may  or  may  not  be,  it  is  not  Richard's. 
The  Klingsor  picture  in  Richard's  scheme,  serves  as  a  link  of  perfectly  simple 
and  quiet  broad  mass  and  color,  between  two  others  elaborated  in  every 
detail,  and  violently  contrasted ;  it  also  gathers  up  a  note  of  form  and  color 
quite  forgotten  two  hours  before,  to  make  one  special  contrast  all  the  more 
vivid.  This  unique  Greek  quality  of  mind,  which,  by  variety  of  means, 
avoids  forcing  any  one  note,  yet  subordinates  every  detail  to  an  unbroken 
unity  from  the  opening  of  the  first  curtain  to  the  final  closing,  passed  out 
with  Wagner's  death.  The  Klingsor  episode  becomes  another  intricately 
elaborate  picture,  carrying  on  the  story,  to  be  sure,  but  preventing  the 
effects  both  of  cumulation  and  of  the  contrast  of  repose  between  violently 
contrasted  accents,  while  also  forcing  the  note  of  excitement  by  substitution 
of  two  new  and  harsh  contrasts  of  wholly  different  kinds. 

Again  arises  a  query,  whether  Cosima  —  upon  whom  has  fallen  the 
mantle  of  a  theatrist  —  with  her  very  imperfect  eyesight,  which  absolutely 
precludes  the  possibility  of  her  seeing  the  drama  staged,  caught  upon  the 
dilemma  of  archaeology  or  art,  has  unconsciously  and  instinctively  chosen 
the  modern  horn,  '  correct  in  the  smallest  details.' 

Last  season  an  interesting  contrast  was  provided  for  the  Cambridge 
theatre  public.  Beside  various  open-air  performances,  the  Ben  Greet  com- 
pany of  players  gave  a  series  of  Shakspere  plays  in  Chickering  Hall, 
Boston,  by  artificial  light.  With  scarcely  a  hint  of  archaeology,  but  with 
delightful  art,  was  shared  the  zest  and  spirit  of  an  Elizabethan  performance. 

Somewhat  later,  the  English  department  of  Harvard  University,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  Architectural  Department,  turned  the  academic  theatre 


ro<5  ON  THE  STAGING  OF  PARSIFAL 

into  an  Elizabethan  play-house  for  the  giving  of  'Hamlet'  by  Mr.  Forbes 
Robertson,  Mrs.  Gertrude  Elliot-Robertson,  and  their  London  company. 
\s  a  result  of  tireless  research  and  of  Gcrmanesque  archaeology,  a  very 
beautiful  modern  presentation  of  'Hamlet'  was  witnessed  amid  most  pecu- 
liar and  unusual  surroundings,  of  great  interest  both  to  actors  and  to  audi- 
ence, but  a  presentation  without  the  least  hint  of  an  Elizabethan  performance 
or  of  Elizabethan  atmosphere. 

What  caused  the  difference?  Merely  one  unnoticed,  at  least  neglected 
or  uncompleted,  detail  of  lighting.  In  the  semi-roofless  Elizabethan  theatre, 
as  in  the  Dionysiac,  the  actors  were  visible  by  diffused  light;  so,  too,  in  Chick- 
ering  Hall.  In  Sanders  Theatre,  however,  the  whole  house  was  illuminated 
chiefly  by  direct  light  from  the  lofty  chandelier.  Moreover  a  row  of  lights 
was  placed  across  the  inner  side  of  the  middle-stage  roof-support,  above 
the  long  front  curtain.  The  result  was  that  the  faces  of  the  actors  were 
annoyingly  invisible  in  shade  (not  shadow!),  below  space  so  lighted  as  to 
illumine  the  rather  unimportant  tops  of  their  heads. 

On  the  modern  stage  faces  are  seen  only  by  footlight,  a  totally  false 
relation  necessary  to  produce  the  effect  of  light  diffused  from  any  visible 
or  invisible  source.  With  footlights  the  Elizabethan  atmosphere  is  impos- 
sible, since  actor  and  audience  are  in  visibly  differing  light  media;  without 
footlight  effect,  archaeology  was  helplessly  unable  to  reproduce  the  art  im- 
pression of  a  daylit  Shaksperian  performance. 

Again,  the  German  score  of  Wagner's  Parsifal  contains  no  such  hint, 
but  the  original  version  of  the  poem  calls  for  '  ein  schwebende  Taube '  upon 
mantle  and  scutcheon,  a  floating,  hovering,  poising  (but  not  a  'soaring' 
dove.  This  hovering  dove  is  before  the  eyes  from  the  opening  of  the  first 
curtain.  In  the  first  Temple  scene,  the  ante-Grail  service  culminates  with  the 
boys'  voices,  singing  from  the  cupola : 

'  Der  Glaube  lebt; 
Die  Taube  schwebt, 
des  Heiland's  holder  Bote:' 

'The  Faith  doth  live; 
The  Dove  descends,    (literally,  poises,  hovers,  floats) 
The  Saviour's  gracious  token:' 

emphasize  the  dove  to  the  ear.     At  the  close  of  Act  III,  the  climax  of  the 


GEORGE  TURNER  PHELPS  107 

whole  appeal  to  the  eye  is  the  lustrous  white  dove  descending  through  the 
dome,  from  the  Saviour,  after  the  ascending  jubilation  over  the  rescue  of 
his  Sang-real  from  sin-stained  hands. 

Wagner  planned  most  minutely  for  a  unity  of  color  scheme  to  run 
throughout  the  entire  drama.  Photographs  of  details  from  early  per- 
formances show  his  attempt  to  carry  out  this  special  minute  detail.  Did 
the  desiccated,  conventionalized,  imperial  eagle  (?),  not  on  the  mantles, 
carry  out  that  subtle,  ever-repeated,  dr  purposely  omitted,  note  of  color? 
Did  the  chorus  of  boys  (inaudible  partly  because,  with  apparent  pause  in 
the  action,  the  house  relapsed  into  conversation,  partly  on  account  of  volume 
and  position)  emphasize  that  note  to  the  ear? 

What  they  really  sang,  fortunately,  cannot  be  laid  to  Cosima : 

'The  Faith  here  lives, 
the  Saviour  gives 
the  Dove,  His  dearest  token : ' 

which  quotation  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Mr.  Savage's  Glyn  transla- 
tion at  its  best,  a  version  unusually  good  as  such  '  translations '  go.  It 
parallels  the  German  just  nearly  enough  to  escape  the  whole  poetic  effect 
of  the  original ;  to  force  upon  the  reader  the  instinctive  question,  '  His  dearest 
token  ? ' ;  for  the  hearer,  to  break  the  musical  phrase  in  exactly  the  wrong 
place,  and  wholly  to  conceal  the  emphasis  on  '  Dove,'  and  its  relation  with 
'  Faith.' 

The  situation  is  well  summed  up  in  the  perfectly  honest  query  put  to 
the  writer,  '  Of  course  it  made  a  finish  to  the  color  of  the  picture,  but  what 
did  that  stuffed  pigeon  at  the  end  have  to  do  with  it?' 

So  much  for  illumination  in  discussing  the  relation  of  archaeology  to 
art.  What  is  the  standard  of  '  correct  in  the  smallest  details '  ?  actual  facts 
of  an  artist's  own  period,  or  actual  relations  between  such  facts  and  their 
conditioning,  physical  surroundings,  past  or  present?  actual  customs  and 
manners  of  certain  historic  periods,  or  an  artist's  use  of  such  material  for 
his  specific  ends?  the  artist's  fact  means  or  his  real  result?  —  But  such  dis- 
cussion is  quite  as  far  beyond  the  scope  of  this  paper  as  was  that  of  the 
Wagner  orchestra. 

The  whole  planning  of  Mr.  Savage's  color  scheme  of  Act  III,  from 
the  first  entrance  of  Gurnemanz  (and  earlier!)  to  the  descent  of  the  Dove, 


108  POE  ON    HAPPIN1 

is  a  triumph  of  the  most  exquisitely  subtle  creath  e  composition  for  the  si 
When  based  upon  the  visible  floor,  the  effects  of  the  differing  color  schemes  of 
the  two  Temple  scenes,  and  of  their  contrast,  are  wonderful  witnesses  to  the 
imagination  of  the  stage  artist,  the  creator  in  color,  in  light,  and  in  form. 
Nevertheless,  although  the  impression  of  the  American  production,  as  a 
whole,  is  that  of  a  marvelous  unit,  yet  the  orchestra  and  the  drama  carry 
that  effect  in  spite  of  the  appeal  to  the  eye,  which  close  attention  reveals  to 
be,  not  a  composition,  but  an  aggregation  of  fragments. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  many  minds  fail  to  grasp  the  five-fold  unity 
of  the  unique  theatric-dramatic  imagination  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Nor 
is  it  by  any  means  unusual  to  find  even  the  immediate  successors  of  a  great 
genius  unable  to  live  in  the  ether  of  his  complete  conception. 

The  Bayreuth  Theatre,  the  musical  score,  and  the  printed  drama,  are 
safe  anchorage  for  the  Wagner  heirs.  Varying  theatrical  conditions,  the 
breathing  of  imagination,  which  bloweth  where  it  listeth  (or  not!),  across 
instruments  of  less  than  Greek  responsiveness,  can  but  result  in  Parsifals 
wonderful  for  themselves  and  for  comparative  criticism  in  creative  stage 
art;  Parsifals  in  America,  Parsifals  at  Bayreuth.  So  long  as  the  world  is 
honest,  in  his  printed  score,  and  beyond  human  touch,  lies  Richard  Wagner's 
Parsifal;  and,  with  the  Parthenon,  Parsifal  is  too  subtly  marvelous  for  ruin. 


POE    ON    HAPPINESS 

By  Danske  Dandridge 

ALTHOUGH  Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  a  genius,  he  was  one  of 
the  most  ill-starred,  ill-contrived  of  mortals  that  ever  wrote 
divinely  and  acted  madly. 
A  great  poet  is  a  great  seer,  and,  although  Edgar 
Allan  Poe's  Daemon  would  not  allow  him  to  practice  his 
own  theories,  yet  there  is  some  truth  and  wisdom  in  these 
theories;  and  we  know  of  none  more  interesting  than  those  on  the  subject 
of  happiness.  '  From  the  violation  of  a  few  simple  laws  of  humanity,"  says 
Poe,  '  arises  the  wretchedness  of  mankind.  As  a  species  we  have  in  our 
possession  the  as  yet  unwrought  elements  of  content;  and  even  now,  in  the 


DANSKE   DANDRIDGE  109 

present  darkness  and  madness  of  all  thought  on  the  great  questions  of  the 
social  condition,  it  is  not  impossible  that  man,  the  individual,  under  certain 
unusual  and  highly  fortuitous  conditions,  may  be  happy.' 

He  goes  on  to  tell  us  of  a  certain  highly-favored  individual  named 
Ellison,  who  '  admitted  but  four  elementary  principles,  or,  more  strictly, 
conditions  of  bliss.  That  which  he  considered  chief  was  the  simple  and 
purely  physical  one  of  free  exercise  in  the  open  air.  The  health,  he  asserted, 
attainable  by  any  other  means  was  scarcely  worth  the  name.  He  instanced 
the  ecstasies  of  the  fox-hunter,  and  pointed  to  the  toilers  of  the  earth  as  the 
only  people  who,  as  a  class,  can  be  fairly  considered  happier  than  others. 

1  His  second  condition  was  the  love  of  woman.  His  third  was  the 
contempt  of  ambition.  His  fourth  was  an  object  of  constant  pursuit,  and 
he  held  that,  other  things  being  equal,  the  extent  of  attainable  happiness 
was  in  proportion  to  the  spirituality  of  this  object.' 

Ellison,  presumably  a  healthy  man,  with  a  beautiful  wife  whom  he 
loved  devotedly,  created  for  himself  a  bit  of  fairyland  in  which  to  live  out 
a  happy  existence.    In  a  word,  he  became  an  enthusiastic  landscape  gardener. 

If  we  are  to  put  any  faith  in  Poe's  philosophy  we  may  perhaps  concede 
that,  given  good  health,  an  absorbing  love,  absence  of  gnawing  ambition, 
and  an  engrossing  pursuit  that  carries  one  into  the  open  air,  as  gardening 
does,  we  mortals  might,  for  a  time,  live  very  contented  lives. 

It  is  not  selfish  to  be  happy;  on  the  contrary,  we  do  not  know  how  one 
can  do  better  than  to  set  an  example  of  happiness  obtained  by  simple  means, 
which  would  preach,  as  all  good  examples  do,  louder  than  the  loudest 
sermon. 

'  If  I  can  possibly  help  it,'  said  Sydney  Smith,  '  I  will  never  be  un- 
happy.' 

To  be  sure,  Ellison's  pursuit  is  a  kind  of  sublimated  and  semi-miracu- 
lous landscape  gardening,  the  result  of  which  Poe  describes,  giving  his 
fantastic  imagination  full  swing.  Ellison  spends  several  years  in  the  search 
for  an  ideal  locality  for  his  earthly  paradise,  which  must  seem,  when  com- 
pleted, as  if  it  were  the  creation  and  abode  of  celestial  beings.  The  visitor 
to  Arnheim  intrusts  himself  to  a  magic  boat  which,  after  many  windings 
and  turnings  along  lovely  shores,  '  commences  a  rapid  descent  and  enters  a 
vast  amphitheater  entirely  begirt  with  purple  mountains,  whose  bases  are 
laved  by  a  gleaming  river  throughout  the  whole  extent  of  their  circuit. 


no  POE   ON   HAPPINI  \s 

Meantime  the  whole  Paradise  of  Arnheim  hursts  upon  the  view.  There 
is  a  gush  ol  entrancing  melody;  there  is  an  oppressive  sense  of  strange, 
sweet  odor;  there  is  a  dreamlike  intermingling  to  the  eye  of  tall,  slender 
eastern  trees,  bosky  shrubberies,  flocks  of  golden  and  crimson  birds,  lily- 
fringed  lakes,  meadows  of  violets,  tulips,  poppies,  hyacinths,  and  tuberoses, 
long,  intertangled  lines  of  silver  streamlets,  and,  uprising  confusedly  from 
amid  all,  a  mass  of  semi-Gothic,  semi-Saracenic  architecture,  sustaining 
itself,  as  if  by  miracle,  in  mid-air;  glittering  in  the  red  sunlight  with  a  hun- 
dred oriels,  minarets,  and  pinnacles,  and  seeming  the  phantom  handiwork, 
conjointly,  of  the  sylphs,  of  the  fairies,  of  the  genii,  and  of  the  gnomes.' 

Poe,  unhappy  as  he  was,  had  one  source  of  enjoyment  that  he  does 
not  mention  among  his  requisites  for  the  attainment  of  bliss,  and  that  was 
his  marvelous  imagination,  which  enabled  him 

'To  fling  a  rainbow7,  now  and  then, 

Lightly  across  his  spirit's  heaven; 
With  shapes  too  fine  for  mortal  ken 

To  limn  the  painted  skies  of  even 
Or  in  dark  winter  months  to  throw 
A  summer  landscape  o'er  the  snow.' 

What  cannot  fail  to  strike  the  thoughtful  reader  of  'Arnheim '  is  the 
absence  of  altruism  in  this  ingenious  scheme  for  individual  happiness.  It 
affords  little  scope  for  the  cultivation  of  the  spiritual  nature.  Perhaps  Poe 
argued  about  men  and  women  as  some  parents  do  in  the  case  of  their  chil- 
dren, that  as  long  as  they  were  happy  they  would  be  good.  Yet  so  bound- 
less are  the  wants  of  the  soul  that  it  is  doubtful  whether  any  scheme  ever 
devised  by  the  fancy  that  had  for  its  object  the  gratification  of  the  senses 
alone  could  long  satisfy  the  higher  nature.  Add  to  Poe's  plan  some  pursuit 
which  should  have  as  its  aim  the  sharing  of  one's  own  happiness  with  others 
less  fortunate,  and  it  is  possible  that  we  may  learn  from  it  some  lessons  of 
wisdom.  And  yet  the  most  admirable  men  and  women  are  those  who  can 
keep  brave  and  bright  and  sweet-tempered  in  spite  of  the  troubles  that 
must  come  to  all,  and  without  following  any  elaborate  plan  for  aesthetic 
enjoyment.  These  strong,  elastic,  loving,  sunny-natured  souls  are  rare, 
indeed,  but  most  of  us  have  been  privileged  to  know  one  or  two  of  them, 
and  to  thank  God  for  that  knowledge. 


STAGE  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE  BEFORE   1800 

Second  Article 
By  Frederick  W.  Kilbourne 

TO  the  foregoing  account  of  the  eighteenth  century  attitude 
towards  Shakespeare*  is  now  added  a  catalogue  raisonne 
of  the  adaptations  to  a  degenerate  dramatic  taste  which 
this  attitude  occasioned*  My  list  is  based  on  that  given  in 
the  Old  Variorum  edition  of  Shakespeare,  and  is  not  only 
a  supplement  to  that  list,  but  also  a  revision  of  it.  It 
aims  to  be,  and  I  may  venture  to  hope  that  it  is,  as  exhaustive  an  enumeration 
of  these  works  as  is  possible  from  the  accessible  material,  and  it  is  reason- 
able to  think  that  no  important  version  made  during  the  literary  period 
under  investigation  has  been  omitted.  The  number  of  such  plays  will  doubt- 
less astonish  those  who  have  never  studied  the  subject.  In  giving  the  list 
I  have  adopted  the  order  of  the  First  Folio. 
The  Tempest. 

'  The  Tempest,  or  the  Enchanted  Island,'  by  Davenant  and  Dry  den, 
written  1667,  printed  by  Dryden  in  1670.  Music  and  spectacle  were  made 
prominent  features,  and,  besides,  the  plot  was  materially  altered,  a  male 
counterpart  to  and  a  sister  of  Miranda  being  introduced,  a  female  Caliban 
added,  and  other  strange  changes  made. 

'  The  Tempest,'  an  opera  by  Thomas  Shadwell,  Dryden's  '  MacFleck- 
noe  and  Og,'  1673,  not  printed. 

'The  Tempest,'  an  opera  by  Garrick,  printed  in  1756.  It  contains 
much  of  Davenant  and  Dryden's  version.  Kemble's  acting  version  of 
Shakespeare's  'Tempest,'  when  acted  in  1789,  contained  not  a  little  of  the 
Davenant-Dryden  version,  but  when  published,  in  18 15,  more  of  Shake- 
speare had  been  restored. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

An  adaptation  was  made  by  Benjamin  Victor  in  1762,  but  it  contains 
no  marked  change. 

Merry  Wives  of  I Finds  or. 

*See  First  Article,  Summer  Number  of  Poet  Lore,  1904. 

(Ill) 


n2    STAGE  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE  BEFORE  1800 

'The  Comical  Gallant,  or  the  Amours  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,'  by  John 
Dennis,  1702.  This  has  great  changes  in  the  characterizations;  omits  much, 
including  the  entire  episode  of  Falstaff's  second  visit  to  Mrs.  Ford,  and, 
of  course,  contains  much  of  Dennis's  own  composition. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

'The  Law  against  Lovers,'  by  Davenant,  printed  in  1673.  This  is 
a  rehash  of  '  Measure  for  Measure,'  with  the  characters  of  Benedick  and 
Beatrice  added  from  '  Much  Ado.'  A  great  deal  of  the  play  is  Davenant's 
own. 

'  Measure  for  Measure,  or  Beauty  the  Best  Advocate,'  by  Charles 
Gildon,  1700.  Gildon's  chief  additions  are  four  musical  masques  as  enter- 
tainments between  the  acts.  Besides  much  of  his  own  composition,  Gildon 
borrowed  a  few  ideas  from  Davenant. 

Comedy  of  Errors. 

'Everybody  Mistaken.'  This  was  a  farce,  according  to  one  authority, 
by  William  Taverner,  acted  about  17 16.  It  was  never  printed,  so  its  rela- 
tion to  its  original  is  unknown. 

'All  Mistaken '  is  given  by  one  authority  as  an  alteration  or  adaptation 
of  the  '  Comedy,'  by  William  Shirley.     I  could  learn  nothing  about  this. 

'  Comedy  of  Errors,'  by  Hull,  deputy  manager  of  Covent  Garden 
Theater,  1779.    This  had  no  marked  change. 

'  The  Twins,  or  Which  is  Which,'  printed  1786,  by  Mr.  Woods.  This 
is  a  farce  made  by  cutting  out  much  of  Shakespeare,  but  with  little  change 
of  what  is  retained. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Davenant's  '  Law  against  Lovers,'  as  mentioned  before,  borrows  the 
characters  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice  and  considerable  of  the  dialogue  from 
this  play. 

'The  Universal  Passion,'  by  James  Miller,  1737.  According  to  the 
Old  Variorum  editors  this  is  a  pasticcio  of  '  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,'  'As 
You  Like  It,'  and  '  Love's  Labor  Lost.'  This,  as  Genest  points  out,  is 
not  so,  but  the  play  is  a  bad  jumble  of  '  Much  Ado  '  and  Moliere's  '  Princess 
of  Elis.'  This  is  one  of  the  worst  instances  of  lack  of  reverence  for  two 
great  geniuses. 

Love's  Labours  Lost. 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  113 

'The  Students,'  1762,  never  acted  and  author  unknown.  .It  is  difficult 
to  characterize  this.  There  are  numerous  minor  changes  of  plot,  charac- 
terizations, and  dialogue. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

'The  Fairy  Queen,'  an  opera,  1692,  author  unknown.  It  contains  no 
important  changes. 

4  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,'  a  comic  masque,  by  Richard  Levendge,  17 16. 

'  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,'  a  mock  6pera,  set  to  music  by  Mr.  Lampe, 
1745.  The  nature  of  this  and  the  preceding  is  evident  from  the  title;  the 
former  I  have  read  and  it  varies  little  from  the  part  of  Shakespeare's  play 
treated;  the  latter  I  could  not  find.    It  may  be  the  same  as  Leveridge's  piece. 

'The  Fairies,'  an  opera,  attributed  to  Garrick,  1755.  This  is  a  com- 
pilation from  Shakespeare's  play  and  is  in  three  acts  with  many  songs. 

'  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,'  an  opera,  with  alterations,  additions, 
and  new  songs,  attributed  to  Colman,  1763.  Among  other  changes  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  mock  play  is  omitted. 

'A  Fairy  Tale,'  in  two  acts,  1763,  is  an  abridgment  of  the  preceding. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

'The  Jew  of  Venice,'  1701,  by  George  Granville,  Lord  Lansdowne. 
A  sad  travesty  of  Shakespeare's  play,  the  chief  change  being  in  the  character 
of  Shylock,  which  is  made  a  low  comedy  part.  There  are  great  changes  in 
the  diction,  considerable  omissions,  and  much  of  Lansdowne's  own  wretched 
stuff. 

As  You  Like  It. 

'Love  in  a  Forest,'  1723,  by  Charles  Johnson.  The  chief  changes  in 
this  case  are  in  the  characterizations,  as,  for  instance,  that  of  making  Jaques 
become  a  lover  of  Celia,  whom  he  marries  at  the  end,  and  in  the  omission  of 
Touchstone  and  other  comic  characters. 

'The  Modern  Receipt,  or  a  Cure  for  Love,'  1739.  This  is  given  as 
an  alteration  of  'As  You  Like  It.'  I  was  unable  to  secure  any  information 
as  to  its  character. 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

'  Sauny  the  Scott,'  printed  in  1698,  by  John  Lacy  (probably).  The 
play  is  turned  into  prose,  the  scene  is  transferred  to  London,  and  Grumio  is 
changed  into  a  Scotchman.     There  are  no  great  changes  in  the  plot. 


ii4    STAGE  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE  BEFORE  1800 

'  The  Cobbler  of  Preston,'  a  farce  by  Christopher  Bullock,  and  a  farce 
by  Charles  Johnson  with  the  same  title,  both  produced  in  1716,  are  based 
on  the  induction  to  Shakespeare's  play. 

' A  Cure  lor  a  Scold,'  1735,  an  opera  by  James  Worsdalc,  a  portrait 
painter,  was  given  as  an  afterpiece  to  '  Richard  I II.'  It  professes  to  be  from 
Shakespeare,  but  is  really  from  '  Sauny  the  Scot,'  verbatim,  or  with  slight 
changes. 

.ill's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

According  to  the  Old  Variorum  editors,  this  play  was  altered  by  a  Mr. 
Pi  Ion  and  reduced  to  three  acts,  1785.  This  alteration  was  never  printed 
and  I  could  learn  nothing  as  to  its  nature. 

Twelfth  Night. 

'Love  Betrayed,  or  the  Agreeable  Disappointment,'  1703,  by  Charles 
Burnaby,  is  a  comedy  based  on  '  Twelfth  Night.'  According  to  Genest, 
about  fifty  lines  are  professedly  taken  from  that  play,  and  the  plot  and 
incidents  come  from  the  same  source.  The  dialogue  is  written  afresh,  but, 
says  Genest,  '  this  comedy  is  rather  to  be  considered  as  a  very  bad  alteration 
of  Shakespeare's  play  than  as  a  new  one.' 

The  Winter's  Tale. 

'The  Winter's  Tale,'  an  alteration  by  Charles  Marsh,  1756.  Marsh 
rewrote  to  a  great  extent  and  abridged  the  first  three  acts  and  reconstructed 
the  last  two,  in  such  a  way  as  to  do  away  with  the  lapse  of  sixteen  years 
between  the  third  and  fourth  acts  of  Shakespeare's  play. 

'The  Sheepshearing,  or  Florizel  and  Perdita,'  1754,  by  M'Namara 
Morgan,  is  a  reconstruction  of  Shakespeare's  last  two  acts. 

'  Florizel  and  Perdita,'  1756,  by  Garrick,  is  in  three  acts,  Shakespeare's 
last  two  with  material  from  the  other  three  incorporated  with  them  and 
considerable  of  Garrick's  own  invention. 

'The  Sheepshearing,'  acted  in  1777  and  attributed  to  Colman,  pro- 
fessed to  be  taken  from  Shakespeare,  but  was  in  reality  an  abridgment  of 
Garrick's  play. 

King  John. 

'Papal  Tyranny  in  the  Reign  of  King  John,'  1745,  by  Colley  Cibber. 
The  whole  of  Shakespeare's  first  act  is  omitted  and  there  are  great  changes 
in  the  remaining  acts.     The  character  of  Falconbridge  is  much  depressed 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  115 

and  that  of  Constance  much  enlarged.  The  play  is  used  as  a  vehicle  for 
religious  invective,  Cibber's  purpose  being  '  to  paint  the  intoxicated  tyranny 
of  Rome  in  its  proper  colors.' 

Richard  II. 

'The  Sicilian  Usurper,'  1681,  by  Nahum  Tate.  The  play  was  acted 
under  this  title  because  the  authorities  suppressed  it  under  its  own  name. 
Tate  heightened  the  character  of  Richard  and  made  York  a  comic  rather 
than  a  serious  character,  but  a  pattern  of  loyalty.  Tate  made  many  addi- 
tions, but  the  greater  part  of  the  play  is  Shakespeare's. 

'  Richard  II,'  17 19,  by  Lewis  Theobald,  the  Shakespeare  editor.  Theo- 
bald did  far  more  violence  to  Shakespeare  and  history  than  did  Tate.  The 
chief  addition  is  an  intrigue  between  Aumerle,  whose  part  is  much  enlarged, 
and  a  new  character,  Lady  Percy,  a  daughter  of  Northumberland. 

A  third  version  of  this  play  was  made  by  one  James  Goodhall  in  1772. 
The  '  Biographia  Dramatica  '  says  it  was  offered  to  Garrick,  who  refused  it, 
and  was  printed  at  Manchester.  Genest  says  the  alteration  was  a  very  bad 
one. 

The  '  Biograhpia  Dramatica  '  chronicles  still  another  '  Richard  II,'  as 
acted  at  Bath  in  1754.  It  was  never  published,  and  I  could  not  learn  whether 
it  was  an  alteration  of  Shakespeare  or  a  new  play. 

/  Henry  IV. 

A  version  of  this  was  printed  in  1700.  It  is  attributed  to  Betterton. 
It  is  without  change  save  omissions,  and  is  better  than  modern  stage  versions 
in  that  it  retains  some  scenes  which  they  omit. 

2  Henry  IV,  by  Betterton,  is  not  so  good  as  his  '  1  Henry  IV,'  as  he 
omitted  too  much  of  the  original  and  supplied  the  omissions  with  material 
taken  from  acts  first  and  second  of  '  Henry  V.' 

Henry  V . 

I  found  no  alteration  of  this  play.  Aaron  Hill's  play  on  the  same 
subject  borrows  some  passages  from  Shakespeare. 

/  Henry  VI. 

This  play  has  not,  to  my  knowledge,  been  altered. 

2  Henry  VI. 

1  Henry  VI,  with  the  Murder  of  Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloucester,' 
1 68 1,  by  John  Crowne,  is  made  up  chiefly  of  the  first  four  acts  of  Shake- 


1.6    STAGE  VERSIONS  OK  SHAKESPEARE  BEFORE  1800 

speare's  play.  The  parts  of  the  Queen,  Suffolk,  and  the  Cardinal  are  en- 
larged, and  there  is  much  invective  against  the  Roman  Catholics,  this  latter 
feature  being  avowedly  the  chiei  purpose  of  the  play. 

3  1 1  airy  VI. 

'Henry  VI,  or  the  Misery  of  Civil  War,'  1681,  by  Crowne,  begins 
with  the  iifth  act  of  Shakespeare's  second  part.  It  professes  to  be  almost 
entirely  original,  but  a  great  deal  is  taken  verbatim  from  Shakespeare. 
Much  intrigue  is  added. 

Ambrose  Phillips's  'Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloucester'  has  about  thirty 
lines  from  2  Henry  VI. 

'An  Historical  Tragedy  of  the  Civil  Wars  between  the  Houses  of 
York  and  Lancaster  in  the  Reign  of  King  Henry  Sixth '  is  the  cumbersome 
title  of  Theophilus  Cibber's  version  (1723)  of  Shakespeare's  play.  It 
covers  much  the  same  ground  as  Crowne's  second  part  and  borrows  from 
it,  but  has  more  of  Shakespeare.  As  usual,  a  great  deal  of  intrigue  is  in- 
troduced. 

'  The  Roses,  or  King  Henry  the  Sixth,'  an  historical  tragedy  repre- 
sented at  Reading  School  in  1795,  consists  mainly  of  the  last  four  acts  of 
'  3  Henry  VI.'  It  is  by  Doctor  Valpy,  who  somewhat  later  made  abridg- 
ments of  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice '  and  '  King  John '  for  use  at  his  school. 
The  scene  is  confined  to  England  and  the  duration  of  the  play  shortened. 
The  language  is  mostly  Shakespeare's.  A  few  passages  are  borrowed  from 
his  other  plays. 

Richard  III. 

'  Richrard  Third,'  1700,  by  Colley  Cibber.  This  is  probably  the  most 
famous  of  all  versions;  it  is  certainly  the  best-known  one,  as  it  entirely  sup- 
planted the  original  play,  and  many  of  its  changes  survive  even  to  this  day. 
A  few  good  alterations  were  made,  but  these  numerous  wanton  and  unneces- 
sary ones  in  plot  and  diction.  Passages  are  borrowed  from  other  plays  and 
much  of  Cibber's  own  composition,  most  of  it  very  poor  work,  is  incor- 
porated, so  that  Cibber  deserves  nothing  but  contempt  for  his  performance. 

Henry  VIII. 

So  far  as  is  known,  no  alteration  of  this  play  has  ever  been  made. 

Troilns  and  Cressida. 

'Troilus  and  Cressida,  or  Truth  Found  Too  Late,'  1679,  by  Dryden. 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  n; 

This  was  professedly  undertaken  to  modernize  Shakespeare's  play,  which 
Dryden  erroneously  thought  to  be  one  of  his  earlier  efforts.  Dryden,  in 
attempting  to  '  refine '  the  play,  made  great  changes,  omitting  several  scenes 
of  the  original  to  introduce  new  scenes  and  episodes  of  his  own  devising. 
The  chief  change,  however,  is  the  new  characterization  of  Cressida,  who  is 
made  faithful  to  Troilus,  thus  running  counter  to  the  opinion  of  her  held 
in  earlier  periods,  during  which  her  infidelity  was  proverbial.  This  neces- 
sitated an  almost  entirely  new  fifth  act.  In  this  new  conclusion  Cressida, 
on  being  reproached  by  Troilus,  stabs  herself  and  dies  forgiving  Troilus, 
who  bitterly  blames  himself  for  believing  her  false.  Troilus  then  kills 
Diomed  —  poetical  justice  —  and  is  killed  by  Achilles.  Some  of  the  reasons 
for  these  changes  have  already  been  given  in  discussing  the  general  treatment 
of  the  plays. 

Coriolanus. 

'  The  Ingratitude  of  a  Commonwealth,  or  the  Fall  of  Caius  Martius 
Coriolanus,'  1682,  by  Nahum  Tate.  This  alteration  was  made  to  empha- 
size the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience  and  to  modernize  the  play.  The 
former  is  done  by  bringing  about  not  only  the  death  of  Coriolanus  but  also 
of  all  his  family,  in  the  course  of  which  much  physical  horror  is  introduced. 
Aufidius  also  dies.  The  women  of  the  play  talk  like  society  women  of  Tate's 
time.  A  new  character,  Nigridius,  an  enemy  of  Coriolanus,  is  introduced 
and  takes  a  prominent  part  in  causing  the  misfortunes  of  Coriolanus  and 
his  family. 

A  second  alteration  of  this  play  was  made  in  17 19  by  John  Dennis.  It 
is  entitled  '  The  Invader  of  his  Country,  or  the  Fatal  Resentment.'  For 
the  most  part  the  play  is  Shakespeare's,  but  Dennis,  like  all  the  others,  makes 
numerous  additions  and  minor  changes.  Like  Tate,  he  metes  out  poetical 
justice  to  Aufidius,  who  is  killed  by  Coriolanus. 

James  Thomson's  '  Coriolanus '  is  an  entirely  independent  play. 

The  '  Coriolanus '  acted  at  Covent  Garden  in  1754  is  an  amalgamation 
of  Shakespeare's  and  Thomson's  plays,  the  greater  part  being  Thomson's. 
It  is  attributed  to  the  elder  Sheridan. 

J.  P.  Kemble's  alteration,  acted  in  1789,  unfortunately  is  spoiled  by 
too  great  borrowing  from  Thomson.  Otherwise  it  might  have  been  a 
judicious  and  legitimate  abridgment.  The  fifth  act  is  more  Thomson's 
than  Shakespeare's. 


n8     STAGE  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE  BEFORE  1800 

Titus  Andronicus. 

'Titus  Andronicus,  or  the  Rape  of  Lavinia,'  published  in  1687,  by 
Edward  Ravenscroft.  Gencst  says  of  this:  '  Ravenscroft  has  added  and 
omitted  a  good  deal,  but  his  play  does  not  differ  very  materially  from  the 
original.  On  the  whole  he  has  improved  '  Titus  Andronicus  ' ;  he  has  altered 
some  things  for  the  better,  and  he  has  certainly  transposed  several  passages 
very  judiciously.     His  additions  are,  in  general,  bad.' 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

The  first  alteration  of  this  play  was  by  James  Howard,  who  made  the 
play  end  happily.  Aside  from  this  change  of  the  catastrophe  nothing  is 
known  of  the  play.  The  play  bill  gives  as  one  of  the  characters  Count 
Paris's  wife,  who  must  have  been  introduced  in  the  altered  play. 

'  Caius  Marius,'  1680,  by  Otway,  can  hardly  be  called  a  version  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  although  more  than  half  of  the  play  is  taken  from  Shake- 
speare's play.  A  son  of  Marius  and  a  daughter  of  one  of  Sulla's  partisans 
correspond  respectively  to  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  nurse  is  retained,  and  there 
is  a  character  corresponding  to  Mercutio.  Much  of  the  dialogue  is  retained, 
either  verbatim  or  somewhat  changed. 

'Romeo  and  Juliet,'  1744,  by  Theophilus  Cibber.  No  very  violent 
changes  are  made,  but  not  a  little  is  taken  from  Otway.  Cibber  follows 
Otway  in  making  Juliet  regain  consciousness  before  Romeo  dies. 

Garrick's  version,  later  slightly  revised  by  Kemble,  was  acted  in  1748. 
Many  minor  changes,  as  making  Juliet  eighteen  instead  of  fourteen,  are 
introduced,  and  Juliet  wakes  as  in  Otway  and  Cibber. 

From  the  preface  to  Charles  Marsh's  '  Cymbeline,'  as  published  in 
1762,  it  appears  that  he  also  revised  '  Romeo  and  Juliet.' 

The  elder  Sheridan  is  said  to  have  made  an  alteration  for  representa- 
tion at  Dublin,  and  John  Lee  one  for  the  Edinburgh  theater.  Nothing  is 
known,  however,  of  any  of  these  three. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

'  Timon  of  Athens,  the  Man-hater,'  1678,  by  Shadwell.  Shakespeare's 
play  is  very  much  transformed,  there  being  many  and  great  changes,  the 
chief  of  which  I  have  already  mentioned,  the  giving  Timon  two  mistresses, 
one  of  whom,  Evandra,  is  faithful  to  the  end,  while  the  other,  Melissa, 
deserts  him.     I  have  already  commented  sufficiently  on  this  feature. 

In  1768  was  published  '  Timon  of  Athens  '  as  altered  from  Shakespeare 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  119 

and  Shadwell  by  James  Love,  an  actor  and  author  of  no  high  degree  of 
merit.  It  follows  Shakespeare  in  the  main,  but  Evandra  and  a  few  minor 
details  are  taken  from  Shadwell. 

A  bad  version  of  this  play  was  made  by  the  dramatist  Richard  Cum- 
berland and  acted  in  1771.  Cumberland  gives  Timon  a  daughter,  which  is 
bad  art,  as  it  makes  his  prodigality  inexcusable.  The  fifth  act  is  almost 
entirely  rewritten.  At  the  conclusion  Timon,  before  dying,  lays  aside  his 
misanthropy,  is  kind  to  his  daughter,  and  gives  her  to  Alcibiades,  who,  as  in 
Shadwell,  is  made  a  model  character. 

Again,  in  1786,  Hull  brought  out  a  version  of  this  play,  with  additions 
from  Shadwell.  From  the  playbill  it  appears  that  the  two  mistresses  were 
the  chief  additions  from  that  source. 

Julius  Caesar. 

A  revision  of  '  Julius  Caesar  '  was  printed  in  17 19,  as  made  by  Davenant 
and  Dryden.  Genest  thinks  it  certain,  however,  that  Davenant  could  have 
had  no  hand  in  it.  I  have  not  found  a  copy  or  an  account  of  this  version. 
Probably  there  were  no  marked  changes. 

'  The  Tragedy  of  Julius  Caesar,'  and  '  The  Death  of  Marcus  Brutus.' 
These  two  tragedies  were  made  from  '  Julius  Csesar '  by  Sheffield,  Duke  of 
Buckinghamshire.  They  were  never  acted,  but  were  published  in  1722 
by  his  widow.  Sheffield,  who  was  a  friend  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  divided 
the  play  in  order  to  conform  strictly  to  the  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action. 
The  first  follows  Shakespeare  closely  except  in  the  diction,  which  is  changed. 
It  ends  with  Antony's  oration.  The  second  tragedy,  having  but  two  acts  of 
the  original  to  draw  upon,  necessarily  has  much  that  is  new.  Several  new 
characters  are  introduced.  In  fact,  a  new  play  is  made,  for  the  first  three 
acts  are  entirely  Sheffield's,  and,  although  the  substance  of  the  last  two  is 
Shakespeare's,  the  diction  is  the  reviser's. 

Macbeth. 

Davenant's  version  of  this  play,  acted  first  in  1672,  published  in  1674, 
turns  the  play  into  a  dramatic  opera.  Many  songs,  dances,  and  much  ma- 
chinery were  introduced  in  the  representation  to  offset  the  attraction  of  better 
acting  at  the  rival  theater.  But  in  addition  to  this  the  plot  was  greatly 
altered,  the  chief  change  being  in  the  enlargement  of  the  characters  of 
Macduff  and  his  wife,  and  the  bad  art  displayed  in  the  duplication  of  im- 


i2o    STAGE  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE  BEFORE  i8< 

portanl  features,  as  in  the  Dryden  and  Davenant  'Tempest.'  The  wh 
appear  to  Macdult  in  a  similar  way  as  they  had  done  to  Macbeth,  and 
prophesy  to  him,  and  the  ghost  of  Duncan  is  seen  only  by  Lady  Macbeth, 
as  Banquo's  by  Macbeth  in  the  original.  The  diction  is  so  changed  that 
Steevens  declared,  'Almost  every  original  beauty  is  either  awkwardly  dis- 
guised or  arbitrarily  omitted.' 

Furness  speaks  of  a  1673  version  differing  from  that  just  mentioned. 
It  is,  he  says,  practically  a  reprint  of  the  First  Folio,  except  that  witch  songs 
are  added.  They  are  similar  to  those  in  Davenant's  version,  but  are  not  in 
the  same  places. 

John  Lee  made  a  version  of  '  Macbeth  '  which  was  played  at  Edinburgh 
in  1753.  The  editors  of  the  '  Biographia  Dramatica  '  thus  characterize  it: 
'  Language  is  not  strong  enough  to  express  our  contempt  of  Mr.  Lee's  per- 
formance. If  sense,  spirit,  and  versification  were  ever  discoverable  in 
Shakespeare's  play,  so  sure  has  our  reformer  laid  them  all  in  ruins.' 
Hamlet. 

Garrick  made  an  alteration  of  Hamlet  in  1772,  but  did  not  venture  to 
print  it.  His  changes  were  mostly  minor  ones.  He  divided  the  acts  differ- 
ently, left  out  the  grave-diggers,  the  fate  of  Ophelia  was  not  given,  and 
the  king  defended  himself  and  was  killed  by  Hamlet  in  the  rencounter. 
Laertes  was  rendered  more  estimable,  and  Hamlet  and  he  were  made  to 
die  of  mutual  wounds. 

Wilkinson,  manager  of  the  Hull  and  York  theaters,  also  made  a  ver- 
sion, which  was  published  in  1795.  In  this,  Hamlet  fought  wTith  and  killed 
the  king.  Laertes  then  killed  Hamlet,  but  was  not  himself  killed.  Passages 
were  introduced  from  other  plays,  as  the  scene  of  Cardinal  Beaufort's  death 
in  '  2  Henry  VI,'  the  king  speaking  what  is  there  given  to  the  cardinal. 
King  Lear. 

'King  Lear,'  by  Nahum  Tate,  168 1,  shares  with  Cibber's  'Richard 
III'  the  doubtful  honor  of  being  the  most  celebrated  alteration  of  Shake- 
speare. The  chief  divergences  from  the  original  are  the  happy  ending,  in 
which  Lear  is  restored  to  his  senses  and  Cordelia  marries  Edgar  and  rules 
the  kingdom,  the  love  affair  between  Edgar  and  Cordelia,  the  omission  of 
the  fool,  and  the  amplification  of  Edmund's  intrigues  with  Goneril  and 
Regan. 

'  King  Lear,'  by  Garrick,   1756,  restored  much  of  Shakespeare,  but 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  121 

retained  most  of  the  love  scenes,  and  in  the  fifth  act  chiefly  followed  Tate. 

'  King  Lear,'  by  the  elder  Colman,  1768,  mainly  followed  Shakespeare 
in  the  first  four  acts,  but  retained  many  of  the  love  scenes,  and  in  the  fifth 
act  adopted  the  happy  ending  of  Tate.  Charles  Lamb  has  well  criticised 
this  latter  feature. 

Othello. 

This  play  has  happily  escaped  alteration. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

'Antony  and  Cleopatra,'  as  fitted  for  the  stage  by  Capell,  the  Shake- 
speare editor,  and  produced  with  Garrick  as  Antony  in  January,  1759,  was 
merely  an  adaptation  by  abridgment,  transposition,  and  omission,  and  was 
in  no  sense  a  new  play. 

Dryden's  dramatic  masterpiece,  'All  for  Love,'  and  Sir  Charles  Sed- 
ley's  'Antony  and  Cleopatra '  are  entirely  independent  of  Shakespeare's 
play.  Dryden's  play  and  Shakespeare's  play  were  amalgamated  in  18 13, 
probably  by  Kemble,  but  as  this  version  belongs  to  a  later  period  than  the 
one  under  review  I  shall  not  describe  it. 

Cymbeline. 

This  play  was  first  altered  by  Tom  Durfey,  in  1682.  Durfey,  who 
made  great  changes,  called  his  play  '  The  Injured  Princess,  or  the  Fatal 
Wager,'  transferred  the  scenes  in  Italy  to  France,  and  renamed  the  char- 
acters. Among  the  numerous  changes  perhaps  the  most  important  as  to 
plot  are  the  making  Ursaces  (Posthumus)  kill  Shattillion  (Iachimo),  and 
the  addition  of  Clarissa,  a  confidant  of  Eugenia  (Imogen).  The  play  is 
given  an  eighteenth  century  Frenchified  treatment,  and  there  is,  of  course, 
much  of  Durfey's  own  composition. 

'Cymbeline'  was  altered,  also,  by  Charles  Marsh  in  1755,  but  his 
version  was  never  acted,  and  although  it  was  printed  I  have  not  seen  a  copy. 
'  Biographia  Dramatica  '  speaks  of  it  as  exhibiting  its  author's  dullness. 

A  third  version  of  'Cymbeline'  was  made  in  1759  by  William  Haw- 
kins, professor  of  poetry  at  Oxford.  Hawkins'  professed  purpose  was  to 
make  the  play  conform  as  far  as  possible  to  the  unities,  especially  that  of 
time.  He  made,  however,  violent  changes  in  the  plot;  in  fact,  he  shame- 
fully mutilated  Shakespeare's  play,  so  that  the  features  of  the  original  are 
hardly  recognizable.     Hawkins  greatly  altered  the  characterizations  and 


i22     STAGE  VERSIONS  OF  SI  I  UtESPEARE  BEFORE  1800 

various  details  of  the  action,  ami  his  own  additions,  in  which  he  aimed  to 
imitate  Shakespeare's  style,  bear  no  very  striking  resemblance  to  their  modeL 
The  parts  of  Philario  (Pisanio),  Palador  (CJuiderius) ,  and  Cloten  are  cn- 
larged  ('improved,'  says  Hawkins),  while  that  of  Posthumus  is  somewhat 
depressed. 

Garrick's  adaptation,  acted  in  1761,  was  judiciously  done,  only  neces- 
sary omissions  and  transpositions  being  made. 

The  '  Cymbeline  '  of  Henry  Brooke,  author  of  the  '  Fool  of  Quality,' 
was  an  independent  play,  although  Brooke  probably  had  Shakespeare  before 
him  as  he  wrote. 

Pericles. 

'Marina,'  1738,  by  George  Lillo,  author  of  the  bourgeois  drama 
1  George  Barnwell,'  is  an  alteration  and  abridgment  of  Shakespeare's  '  Peri- 
cles.' It  is  in  three  acts.  The  scenes  are  confined  to  Ephesus  and  Tyre  and 
are  made  up  from  Shakespeare's  last  two  acts.  Some  judicious  changes 
are  made,  but  some  parts  are  omitted  that  might  better  have  been  retained, 
and  Lillo's  own  additions  are  but  indifferent.  No  material  changes  are 
made  in  the  action. 

This  completes  the  list  of  these  dramatic  perversions.  Taken  together 
they  constitute  a  very  considerable  literary  product  which  has  now,  happily, 
been  for  the  most  part  discarded  and  forgotten.  'And  thus  the  whirligig 
of  time  brings  in  his  revenges.'  Shakespeare,  whom  they  for  a  time  crowded 
almost  entirely  from  the  scene,  has  survived  his  temporary  displacement, 
proving  thereby  that  his  works  are  '  not  for  an  age,'  as  were  those  of  his 
would-be  improvers,  '  but  for  all  time.'  That  this  change  has  been  effected 
makes  one  have  renewed  confidence  in  the  unerring  literary  judgment  of 
time.  As  for  these  plays,  they  have  interest  now  merely  as  literary  curi- 
osities and  as  the  manifestations  of  dramatic  notions  forever  and  rightfully 
rejected. 


SCHOOL  OF  LITERATURE 

SHAKESPEARE  STUDIES:     'THE  TEMPEST' 

[Reprinted  by  request  from  Poet  Lore,  No.  6-7,  Vol.  VIII  (1896) 
now  out  of  print.] 

By  Charlotte  Porter  and  Helen  A.  Clarke 

HAVING  read  '  The  Tempest '  as  a  whole,  if  it  be  not  already 
fresh  in  the  mind,  consider  more  carefully  the  characteristics 
of  its  dramatic  structure,  studying  the  plot  and  progress 
of  the  story  as  it  is  unfolded  act  by  act,  also  the  characters, 
and  so  forth,  as  suggested  in  the  following  study. 

The  topics  given  under  each  division  may  be  used, 
of  course,  either  as  subjects  for  papers,  for  class-work,  or  for  private  study. 
The  line-numbering  of  citations,  here  given,  follows  that  of  '  The  First  Folio 
Edition,'  edited  by  Charlotte  Porter  and  Helen  A.  Clarke  (New  York:  T. 
Y.  Crowell&Co.). 

The  Schemes  of  Prospero.     Act  I. 

The  first  scene  shows  the  storm  in  progress.  Is  there  any  clew  given 
to  the  reader  that  it  is  a  magic  tempest?  What  is  Prospero's  main  object  in 
having  the  ship's  crew  and  passengers  cast  upon  his  island?  Is  it  to  wreak 
vengeance  on  his  enemies,  to  work  the  charm  of  love  between  Ferdinand 
and  Miranda,  or  by  means  of  that  to  reinstate  himself?  In  what  way  would 
this  love  work  to  his  advantage?  Notice  the  natural  way  in  which  the 
reader  is  put  in  possession  of  the  necessary  information  about  the  past  of 
Prospero  and  Miranda.  Warburton  says  of  this  that  it  is  the  finest  example 
he  knows  of  retrospective  narration  for  the  sake  of  informing  the  audience 
of  the  plot.  How  much  of  the  plot  is  permitted  to  come  out  in  this  act? 
Why  does  Prospero  so  repeatedly  urge  Miranda's  attention?  Is  she  ab- 
stracted, is  he,  or  is  she  already  beginning  to  be  drowsy?  Why  was  Fer- 
dinand the  first  to  quit  the  ship?  Since  Prospero  already  knows,  why  does 
he  ask  Ariel  what  time  it  is  ? 

Points,      i.     Source  of  the  plot.     (No  one  has  as  yet  succeeded  in 

(123) 


124  SCHOOL  OF  LITERA1  IRE 

finding  the  play  or  novel  on  which  the  play  was  founded;  hut  the  fact  that 
the  'unities'  arc  observed  in  it  as  in  no  other  play  of  Shakespeare's  leads 
Warburton  to  suppose  that  it  was  taken  from  some  Italian  writer,  none  but 
the  Italians  observing,  at  that  date,  the  dramatic  unities,  and  also  because 
the  characters  arc  all  Italians.  There  arc,  however,  several  books  from 
which  Shakespeare  may  have  obtained  suggestions  for  certain  incidents  in 
1  The  Tempest ' :  the  storm  and  wreck  may  have  been  suggested  by  accounts 
of  the  experiences  of  Sir  George  Somers  and  others  during  their  voyage  of 
discovery  to  the  Bermudas;  or  from  Ariosto's  description  of  a  storm  in  the 
'Orlando,'  Canto  41.  There  is,  also,  an  early  German  play,  'The  Fair 
Sidea,'  which  resembles  'The  Tempest,'  but  is  probably  not  its  source,  but 
founded,  like  '  The  Tempest,'  on  the  same  undiscoverable  story.  A  trans- 
lation of  this  play  is  given  in  the  Furness  Variorum  'Tempest.'  (See  a 
note  in  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  V,  p.  53,  January,  1894,  for  a  possible  variant  of 
'The  Tempest.')  Gonzalo's  speech,  too  (ii.  1),  follows  pretty  closely  a 
passage  in  Florio's  Montaigne.  2.  Explain  the  nautical  terms.  '  Master's 
whistle.'  In  Shakespeare's  time  naval  commanders  wore  great  whistles  of 
gold.  A  modern  boatswain's  badge  is  a  silver  whistle  suspended  to  the 
neck  by  a  lanyard.  Holt  extols  the  excellence  of  Shakespeare's  sea-terms, 
but  makes  an  exception  of  Gonzalo's  '  cable,'  which  he  says  is  of  no  use  unless 
the  ship  is  at  anchor,  and  here  it  is  plainly  sailing;  to  w7hich  Furness  replies, 
Shakespeare  anchors  Gonzalo's  hopes  on  the  boatswain's  '  gallows  com- 
plexion,' and  the  cable  of  that  anchor  was  the  hangman's  rope.  3.  '  Wash- 
ing of  ten  tides.'  An  allusion  to  the  custom  of  hanging  pirates  at  low-water 
mark.  (See  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  VI,  notes,  p.  220,  April,  1894.)  4.  Com- 
pare this  storm  with  that  in  'Pericles,'  —  'Do  not  assist  the  storm,'  etc., 
with  'Per.'  Ill,  i,  51-60.  5.  Explain  'To  trash  for  over-topping,'  I,  ii, 
98,  which  is  '  a  blending  of  two  metaphors.'  Trash  refers  to  the  habit  of 
hanging  a  weight  round  the  neck  of  the  fleetest  of  a  pack  of  hounds,  to  keep 
him  from  getting  ahead  of  the  rest;  and  'overtopping'  to  trees  shooting 
up  above  the  others  in  a  grove,  wrhich  have  to  be  lopped  to  keep  them  even. 
6.  What  does  Prospero  mean  by  saying,  '  Now  I  arise  '  ?  Simply,  now  I 
get  up,  and  now  my  fortunes  change?  7.  '  Still  vex'd  Bermoothes.'  Ber- 
mudas, spelled  in  several  ways  in  Shakespeare's  time,  and  called  '  still  vex'd," 
from  accounts  of  tempests  prevailing  there.  8.  'Argier.'  The  name  of 
Algiers  till  after  the  Restoration.     9.      'One  thing  she  did.'     What?     Arc 


CHARLOTTE  PORTER  AND  HELEN  A.  CLARKE       125 

we  anywhere  told  what? 

Query  for  Discussion.  Does  the  long  monologue  of  Prospero  in 
this  act  detract  from  its  dramatic  force?  Is  the  monologue  rightly  disused 
in  modern  plays?     Why?     Compare  Ibsen's  plays  in  this  respect. 

The  Counter-plot.     Act  II. 

Tell  the  story  of  Act  II,  showing  how  its  main  event  is  the  conspiracy 
of  Antonio  and  Sebastian  against  Alonzo  and  Gonzalo.  Is  the  issue  left 
undecided  long,  so  that  it  threatens  the  result?  How  and  why  does  Ariel 
prevent  the  success  of  it?  Might  it  not  have  been  to  Prospero's  advantage 
to  have  the  King  killed,  since  Ferdinand  would  then  succeed  to  the  throne 
of  Naples?  Did  Ariel's  intervention  kill  the  plot?  What  light  is  thrown 
on  the  characters  by  scene  i.  of  this  act?  Do  you  think  it  is  intended  to  be 
shown  that  Gonzalo  is  prosy  and  tiresome,  although  good,  or  only  that  the 
lower  and  more  frivolous  characters  find  him  so?  Which  is  the  likelier, 
that  Shakespeare  intended  the  dialogue  about  Gonzalo's  ideal  common- 
wealth to  be  a  satire  upon  it,  or  favorable  to  Utopian  schemes?  Which 
comes  out  the  better  at  last  in  the  wit-combat,  —  the  quick  Antonio  and 
Sebastian,  or  the  thoughtful  Gonzalo?  Is  Sebastian's  solicitude  about 
Claribel  a  sign  of  a  kindlier  nature  than  Antonio's?  Are  there  any  indica- 
tions that  Antonio's  mind  is  more  alert  than  Sebastian's?  What  purposes  of 
the  action  or  plot  are  served  by  the  introduction  of  Claribel?  Is  the  King's 
grief  as  great  for  the  daughter  as  for  the  son?  How  does  his  paternal 
affection  compare  with  Prospero's?  Compare  Antonio's  speech,  suggesting 
the  murder  to  Sebastian,  with  similar  speeches  in  Shakespeare  (Macbeth's, 
King  John's,  Oliver's  in  'As  You  Like  It,'  Claudius'  in  '  Hamlet') .  In  the 
second  scene  of  this  act,  how  far  is  a  second  counter-plot  foreshadowed? 

Points,  i.  The  jokes  of  Act  II:  their  explanation  (i.  e.,  'dollar' 
and  '  dolour,'  the  '  eye  of  green,'  etc.).  2.  When  were  watches  first  used 
in  Europe?  3.  Tell  the  story  of  iEneas  and  Dido.  4.  What  myth  is 
alluded  to  in  '  his  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous  harp  '  ?  5.  Gonzalo's 
Commonwealth  —  its  origin  from  Montaigne.  It  is  commonly  supposed 
that  Shakespeare  must  have  borrowed  this  reference  from  the  translation. 
Frame  a  plea  that  he  took  it  directly  from  the  French.  (For  aid  in  this 
see  '  Shakespeare's  Compliment  to  Brantome,'  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  IV,  p.  249, 
August-September,  1892,  for  a  similar  use  in  'Lear'  of  a  French  passage; 


I26  SCHOOL  OF  LITERATURE 

also  Flcay  in  'Gentle  Will  our  Fellow/  Vol.  V,  p.  6i6,  December,  1893.) 

6.  Show  the  bearing  oi  Sebastian's  phrase,  '  I  am  standing  water,'  with 
its  context.  (That  is,  at  the  turn  oi  the  title  between  ebb  and  full.)  7. 
'The  man  i'  the  moon,'  and  the  folk-lore  about  it.  8.  Natural  history  on 
the  island  (Poet  I  .ore,  April,  1894,  Notes  and  News). 

QUERY  FOR  Discussion.  Is  it  a  defect  in  the  action  of  the  play  that 
the  danger  arising  from  the  most  important  counter-plot  is  allayed  so  soon? 

New  Plots  against  Prospero.     Act   III. 

What  new  turns  are  given  events  in  Act  III?  Scene  i  continues  Fer- 
dinand's love-making,  and  shows  no  hindrances  there  to  Prospero's  plans; 
but  scene  ii  develops  Caliban's  plot,  and  scene  iii  shows  Sebastian  and  An- 
tonio making  ready  to  carry  out  the  purpose  which  had  at  first  been  defeated. 
Give  an  account  of  the  scene  in  Act  II  which  leads  up  to  this  plot  in  con- 
nection with  its  sequel  in  this  act.  Ariel  is  baffled  in  his  attempts  to  breed 
contention  between  the  conspirators  by  Trinculo's  good  nature,  but  finally 
he  leads  them  oft  with  his  music.  Scene  iii  represents  Alonzo  and  his  cour- 
tiers bewildered  and  tired  by  their  fruitless  tramps  through  the  island,  and 
in  just  the  temper  to  be  confused  by  the  dumb-show  and  the  harpies.  Note 
the  dependence  placed,  throughout  '  The  Tempest,'  on  the  effect  of  '  solemn 
and  strange  music'  Antonio's  plot,  being  resumed,  is  blocked  by  Ariel's 
magic  show  and  his  accusation.  Note  how  the  supernatural  quality  of  the 
scene  makes  his  speech  affect  their  consciences  as  if  they  were  themselves 
accusing  themselves,  and  how  it  drives  them  into  mental  disorder.  Dr. 
Bucknill,  a  specialist  in  brain  disease,  who  has  commented  on  Shakespeare's 
knowledge  of  such  maladies,  explains  that  Alonzo's  frenzy  leads  him  by 
an  imaginative  melancholy  to  the  idea  of  suicide,  while  the  madness  of  An- 
tonio and  Sebastian  expresses  itself  in  the  idea  of  desperate  fight. 

Points,  i.  What  is  a  'catch,'  a  'tabor'?  Give  an  account  of  the 
music  in  the  play,  and  show  the  fitness  of  its  different  effects  on  the  different 
characters.  2.  Explain  the  allusions,  '  unicorns,'  '  one  tree,  the  Phoenix 
throne,'  'mountaineers,'  with  'wallets  of  flesh,'  etc.  3.  What  is  a  harpy? 
Give  an  account  of  the  mention  of  harpies  in  Virgil  (.-Eneid,  Book  III), 
and  'Paradise  Regained'  (Book  II).  What  appropriateness  to  the  pur- 
pose in  this  '  quaint  device  '  ? 

Query  for  Discussion.     Do  the  counter-plots  introduced  in  this  act 


CHARLOTTE  PORTER  AND  HELEN  A.  CLARKE        127 

mainly  affect  events  or  character? 

The  Confusion  of  the  Plotters.     Act  IV. 

Show  how  the  story  of  Act  IV  is  of  the  smoothing  down  of  all  that 
disturbs  Prospero's  designs,  and  foreshadows  the  complete  reconciliation 
of  the  last  act.  The  lovers,  whose  readiness  to  fall  in  with  Prospero's  plan 
has  made  his  task  light  so  far  as  they  are  concerned,  could  only  imperil  his 
and  their  future  by  a  premature  union;  and  Ferdinand,  having  stood  the  test 
of  hard  work,  is  now  induced,  by  an  awed  and  holy  mood,  produced  by  art, 
to  keep  his  good  resolutions.  Describe  the  mask,  and  show  its  meaning  and 
fitness  for  Prospero's  purposes.  Why  is  Prospero  so  disturbed  at  the  re- 
minder of  so  paltry  a  plot  as  that  of  Caliban  and  his  associates?  Is  it  likely 
that  these  drunken  fellows  could  frame  any  plot  that  would  be  but  as  gossa- 
mer before  his  art?  Is  it  natural  that  so  low  a  creature  as  Caliban  should 
show  more  intelligence  than  Stephano  and  Trinculo  in  disregarding  Ariel's 
'stale '  set  to  catch  them?  How  do  you  explain  his  superior  caution?  De- 
scribe the  device  employed  by  Prospero  and  Ariel  to  rout  these  plotters. 
Would  it  be  effective  on  an  English  stage? 

Points,  i.  Explanation  of  classical  allusions.  'Hymen's  lamps,' 
'Phoebus'  steeds,'  Ceres,  Iris,  Juno,  etc.;  'dusky  Dis,'  '  Paphos,'  etc.  2. 
The  botany  of  Act  IV.  What  is  'stover,'  '  furze,'  gorse?  3.  Was  Pros- 
pero's 'line'  a  lime-tree  or  a  clothes-line?  4.  Explanation  of  the  jokes 
of  the  act.  5.  Natural  history  on  the  island  again:  the  'blind  mole,' 
'  barnacles,'  '  apes,'  '  pard,'  etc. 

Query  for  Discussion.  Why  is  the  punishment  devised  for  the 
lesser  plotters  corporal,  and  for  the  greater  ones  psychical? 

Prospero's  Triumph.     Act  V. 

Sum  up  the  results  consummated  by  Prospero's  magic.  Note  Gonzalo's 
account  of  the  play,  and  show  the  ethical  results,  and  Ariel's  part  in  Pros- 
pero's course  of  reconciliation.  Explain  how,  if  Prospero  had  regained  his 
dukedom,  and  yet,  if  '  all  of  us,'  as  Gonzalo  says,  had  not  found  ourselves, 
the  triumph  would  have  been  material,  not  ethical.  Show  how  this  effect 
is  enhanced  by  the  plan  to  awaken  dismay  and  remorse  in  the  minds  of  the 
evil-doers  and  how  the  climax  in  Prospero's  triumph  is  reached  by  the  victory 
wrought  in  his  own  mind  when  he  determines  to  take  part  with  his  '  nobler 


128  SCHOOL  OF  LITERATURE 

reason  'gainst  his  fury  '  in  order  to  restore  his  enemies  to  themselves.  What 
indications  arc  there  in  the  play  that  Prospero  was  high-strung  and  spirited, 
—  a  revenge-loving  Italian?  Trace  the  effects  of  remorse  on  each  of  the  ill- 
doers.  Is  there  any  reason  to  suppose  that  Antonio,  Stephano,  or  Trinculo 
are  repentant?     Is  it  out  of  character  for  Caliban  to  be? 

Points,  i  .  The  '  Faerie  '  of  the  play.  Compare  with  that  of  '  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream.'  (See  '  Fairy-lore  of  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,' 
Poet  Lore,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  177,  April,  1891.)  Victor  Hugo  notes  the  contrast 
as  follows:  '"Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  depicts  the  action  of  the  in- 
visible world  on  man;  "The  Tempest"  symbolizes  the  action  of  man  on  the 
invisible  world.'  (See  also  the  'Supernatural  in  Shakespeare's  "Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream"'  in  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  V,  p.  490,  October,  1893;  'n 
Shakespeare's  'Tempest,'  p.  557,  November,   1893.) 

2.  The  duration  of  the  play.  Explain  how  it  follows  the  'unities'; 
and  in  this  connection  show  the  probable  equality  of  '  three  glasses '  to  three 
hours,  and  Shakespeare's  mistake.  (Shakespeare's  use  of  nautical  terms, 
approved  by  all  seamen,  seems  to  be  here  at  fault  in  supposing  a  '  glass ' 
equal  to  one,  instead  of  to  a  half,  hour.) 

3.  The  game  of  chess  and  its  pertinence  here:  Because  so  wise  a 
father  would  have  taught  his  daughter  so  intellectual  a  game;  because  Queen 
Elizabeth  was  fond  of  it,  and  it  was  par  excellence  a  '  royal  game ' ;  or  be- 
cause Naples  was  the  source  and  center  of  the  chess  furore  at  just  this  time? 

4.  Where  is  the  scene  of  the  'Tempest'  laid?  Is  the  island  real  or 
unreal?  (The  main  conjectures  for  a  known  place  are  Hunter's  that  it  was 
Lampedusa,  and  Elze's  that  it  was  Pantelaria.  Both  argue  that  each  island 
was  so  situated  in  the  Mediterranean,  between  Milan  or  its  port  and  Algiers, 
whence  the  sailors  landed  Sycorax,  as  to  suit  the  requirements.  Elze  further 
urges  the  name  of  a  town  on  the  opposite  African  coast,  Calibia,  as  sug- 
gesting Caliban's  name.) 

5.  The  influence  of  the  New  World  on  the  writing  of  'The  Tem- 
pest,' and  all  allusions  traceable  to  it. 

Query  for  Discussion.  What  constitutes  the  interest  in  '  The  Tem- 
pest,'—  character,  dramatic  situations,  movement,  plot,  poetry,  or  moral 
purpose? 


CHARLOTTE  PORTER  AND  HELEN  A.  CLARKE       129 

Character  Studies. 
1.     Prospero  and  his  Servants. 

With  the  first  word  Shakespeare  introduces  Prospero  as  one  who  can 
raise  and  calm  such  a  tempest  as  scene  i  describes,  and  the  magician  admits 
the  power  Miranda  ascribes  to  him.  Show  from  the  story  what  his  plans 
and  motives  were  likely  to  prove.  Would  a  sense  of  his  own  former  neglect 
of  duty  be  likely  to  embitter  him  against  his  brother  or  make  him  excuse 
him?  Does  he  show  signs  of  either?  Prospero's  magic,  his  garment,  books, 
staff.  How  far  is  his  magic  in  accord  with  the  popular  notions  of  such  art? 
(See  'Prospero  and  Magic,'  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  144,  March,  1891.) 

Show  Ariel's  qualities.  What  caused  his  first  impatience?  Is  Pros- 
pero unnecessarily  harsh  and  imperious  with  him?  Aside  from  the  popular 
supposition  that  spirits  or  familiars  obeying  magicians  were  always  reluctant 
to  serve  longer  than  one  hour  (and,  therefore,  says  Scot's  '  Discovery  of 
Witchcraft,'  'the  magician  must  be  careful  to  dismiss  him'),  how  can  you 
explain  this  quarrel,  —  as  a  dramatic  expedient  giving  occasion  for  telling 
Ariel's  story,  or  revealing  the  characters  of  both  Prospero  and  Ariel?  Note, 
also,  its  further  use  in  introducing  Prospero's  second  servant,  Caliban,  and 
his  story.  How  do  you  explain  Ariel's  irrelevant  rejoinder :  '  Yes,  Caliban, 
her  son';  and  Prospero's  angry,  '  Dull  thing,  I  say  so,'  etc.?  Do  you  think 
Moulton  right  in  supposing  that  Prospero  governs  '  this  incarnation  of 
caprice  by  outcapricing  him';  or  Rolfe,  in  supposing  that  Prospero  is  irri- 
table because  under  the  strain  and  suspense  of  conducting  affairs  within 
three  hours  perfectly,  and  upon  which  accuracy  hangs  his  future  and  the 
happiness  of  his  daughter?  This  was  also  his  only  chance  of  retrieving 
his  own  past  error. 

Contrast  Ariel  with  Caliban.  Show  the  skill  of  his  first  appearance 
as  some  slow-moving  thing,  half  of  water,  half  of  earth,  in  contrast  with 
Ariel's  second  appearance  as  a  nymph.  What  may  be  learned  of  Caliban's 
traits  from  Miranda's  speech  (as  in  the  Folio,  but  by  various  editors  given 
to  Prospero)  :  'Abhorred  slave,'  etc.?  Do  you  think  this  speech  should  be 
given  to  Prospero?  What  signs  are  there  of  Caliban's  having  a  good  mind? 
Do  you  think  Prospero's  tyranny  over  Caliban  altogether  justified?  Is 
Caliban's  penitence  consistent  with  his  nature?  How  far  does  Ariel  pro- 
ceed independently  of  Prospero?     Is  he  really  fond  of  him? 

Query  for  Discussion.     Is  there  any  bond  of  love  between  Pros- 


130  SCHOOL  OF  LITERATURE 

pero  ;uul  his  servants?      D<»  the  relations  between   them  illustrate  the  im- 
possibility of  gratitude? 

2.     The  Lovers. 

Is  the  love  of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  an  enchantment  caused  by  Pros- 
pero,  or  an  emotion  he  can  help,  but  not  cause?  If  not  caused  by  him,  d 
Shakespeare  depart  from  magic  to  the  detriment  of  the  play?  Would  it 
be  better,  for  example,  if  a  love  philter  was  introduced  for  consistency's 
sake?  (For  literary  use  of  the  love  philter,  see  Tennyson's  'Lucretius.') 
Does  it  reflect  against  Ferdinand's  courage  that  he  was  first  to  quit  the  ship? 
Are  Miranda's  speeches  about  her  grandmother  (I,  ii,  140)  and  to  Caliban 
inconsistent  with  the  maidenly  innocence  assumed  to  be  characteristic  of  her  ? 
Do  you  consider  her  talk  with  Ferdinand  (III,  i)  in  character?  Is  she 
undutiful  to  her  father?  Unmaidenly  in  her  speedy  declaration  of  love  (III, 
i,  67,  89,  94-106,  no)  ?  Should  she  be  represented  as  ignorant  or  innocent 
of  the  world,  or  as  in  love?  Describe  the  characters  and  relations  to  each 
other  of  the  lovers  from  all  that  is  given  about  them.  Compare  with  Flori- 
zel  and  Perdita  in  '  The  Winter's  Tale.' 

Query  for  Discussion.  Are  Miranda  and  Ferdinand  undeveloped 
characters  whose  relation  to  each  other  is  more  important  to  the  play  than 
they  themselves  are? 

3.     The  Minor  Characters. 

Which  is  the  most  important  of  the  lesser  characters  and  why?  Is 
Gonzalo  blamable  at  all  under  the  circumstances  for  following  the  command 
to  turn  Prospero  and  Miranda  adrift?  Why  is  Gonzalo  of  better  cheer 
than  his  companions?  What  do  you  think  of  his  philosophy  in  itself  and 
as  an  index  to  his  character?  Is  his  knowledge  superior  to  that  of  his 
companions?  Does  he  suspect  the  evil  intent  of  Antonio  and  Sebastian? 
Show  how  his  frankness  and  loyalty  came  out  in  Act  III,  and  how  his  up- 
rightness is  rewarded  in  Act  V.  Do  you  think  it  significant  that  he  closes 
the  play?  Francisco  considered  as  the  least  important  personage  in  the 
play :  should  his  speech  describing  Ferdinand's  swimming  be  given  to  Gon- 
zalo? (For  some  attempt  to  describe  Francisco,  etc.,  see  'Notes  on  "The 
Tempest,'"  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  21,  January,  1891.)  The  sailors  con- 
sidered as  examples  of  Shakespeare's  skill  in  outline  portraits.    Are  Stephano 


CHARLOTTE  PORTER  AND  HELEN  A.  CLARKE       131 

and  Trinculo  more  highly  developed  types  than  Caliban?    Would  the  play 
be  better  if  they  were  left  out? 

Query  for  Discussion.  Is  Gonzalo  more  like  Polonius  in  '  Hamlet ' 
or  Kent  in  '  Lear  '  ? 

A  Study  of  Artistic  Design. 
The  Symbolism  of  '  The  Tempest.' 

Did  Shakespeare  typify  himself  as  Prospero?  Prospero  (says  Mon- 
tegut)  alludes  to  his  own  age,  and  intimates  that  the  time  has  come  for 
retirement  to  private  life.  What  indications  can  you  find  that  Prospero 
images  Shakespeare?  If  he  is  so  interpreted,  what  parts  may  Ariel  and 
Caliban  be  supposed  to  play?  Is  the  history  of  the  Enchanted  Island  and 
the  transformation  wrought  a  parallel  with  the  history  of  the  Stage  and 
the  transformation  Shakespeare  wrought?  According  to  Montegut,  Caliban 
stands  for  Marlowe,  Ariel  for  the  English  Genius  which  Shakespeare  frees 
from  its  barbaric  prison.  Dowden  ('Mind  and  Art  of  Shakespeare') 
fancies  Prospero  as  the  great  artist  lacking  at  first  in  practical  faculty,  cast 
out  therefore  from  practical  worldly  success;  but  bearing  with  him  Art  in 
her  infancy,  the  child  Miranda,  finds  at  last  an  enchanted  country  where 
his  arts  can  work  their  magic,  subduing  the  grosser  appetites  and  passions 
(Caliban),  and  commanding  the  offices  of  the  imaginative  genius  of  poetry 
(Ariel).  He  supposes  Ferdinand  to  be  Shakespeare's  heir  as  a  playwright 
(Fletcher).  Lowell  ('Among  my  Books')  considers  that  the  characters 
do  not  illustrate  a  class  of  persons,  but  belong  to  universal  nature,  —  Imagi- 
nation embodied  in  Prospero;  Fancy  in  Ariel;  brute  understanding  in  Cali- 
ban, who,  with  his  wits  liquor-warmed,  plots  against  his  natural  lord,  the 
higher  reason;  Miranda,  abstract  Womanhood;  Ferdinand,  Youth,  com- 
pelled to  drudge  till  sacrifice  of  will  and  self  win  him  the  ideal  in  Miranda. 
Browning  makes  an  incidentally  interesting  contribution  to  this  subject  by 
symbolizing  in  Caliban  rudimentary  theologizing  man,  in  his  poem  '  Cali- 
ban.'    (See  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  V,  p.  562,  November,  1893.) 

Topic  for  Debate.  Is  '  The  Tempest '  an  allegory  ?  Is  it  in  any 
sense  an  autobiographical  play?  Does  its  symbolism  have  much  in  com- 
mon with  that  of  modern  symbolistic  plays,  such  as  Maeterlinck's  'Joyzelle,' 
for  example? 


LIFE  AND  LETTKRS 


MR.  CHESTERTON'S  ><• 
(cut    praise   of    Browning 
;ind   .Mr.  Santa] ana's  Less 
r©  ent     condemnation     of 
him     remind     one    of     the 
pleas  for  and  against  Pom- 
pilia  delivered  In    Browning's  two  advo- 
cates,    Bottinius  and   de  Archangelis,   In 
'  The  Ring  and  the  Book.' 

Both  of  these  pleas  regarding  Pom- 
pilia  were  intellectually  ingenious  with 
relation  to  an  established  legal  manner, 
but  humorously  lacking  in  insight  as  to 
the  living  fact.  So  neither  the  gymnas- 
tic vaulting  of  the  loose-witted,  meteoric 
Bottinius  nor  the  scholastic  profundity 
of  the  heavily  Latinized  de  Archangelis 
strike  the  reader,  who  has  felt  the  heart 
and  truth  of  Pompilia's  life  from  the 
poet,  as  ever  hitting  at  all  upon  the  real 
Pompilia.  Here  and  there  and  every- 
where, except  at  the  central  whiteness, 
the  flying  arrows  of  the  one  advocate 
and  the  heavy  shot  of  the  other  fall  idly 
to  the  ground  around  their  target. 

Simplicity  is  generally  supposed  to  be 
a  quality  of  the  meagre  and  undeveloped 
nature,  therefore  the  last '  trait  in  the 
world  to  belong  to  so  rich  and  highly 
developed  a  nature  as  Browning's.  And 
it  is  true  that  the  simplicity  of  a  child 
who  does  not  spell  beyond  words  of  one 
syllable  and  the  simplicity  of  a  sage  or 
an  artist  having  wisdom  within  him, 
won  from  digested  knowledge  of  life  and 
the  world,  is  not  the  same  simplicity  as 
that  of  a  child,  nor  for  the  same  audience. 
And  yet  child  and  sage,  relatively,  as  re- 
gards the  one  his  small  world,  and  the 
other  his  spacious  manifold  universe  of 
sensation,  impression,  and  utterance,  may 
be  equally  simple  if  their  utterance  be 
single  to  the  truth  within. 

In  this  sense  the  genius  of  Browning, 
unusual   as  it  was,   is  almost  as  unusual 


in  Bimplii  in  of  aim  and  development. 
He  could  not  be  other  than  he  was,  for 
he    almost    never    posed  —  the    common 

trick  i't  the  minor  artist,  easily  applauded 
of  his  day  and  circle.  He  never  de- 
pended for  his  color  on  other  times 
and  minds,  although  so  abundantly 
informed  of  them,  or  perhaps  because  so 
abundantly  informed  of  them.  Neither 
did  he  conform  to  pre-determined  stand- 
ards of  the  simple  or  artistic,  nor  plot 
to  overthrow  these  standards,  or  circum- 
vent them.  He  merely  took  the  forth- 
right course  of  living  himself  out  artis- 
tically, and  letting  his  own  light  lead 
him,  quite  like  his  own  Pompilia,  who 
neither  submitted  to  other  people's  laws 
nor  broke  them,  but  lived  her  life  obedi- 
ently to  the  conscience  within  her. 

So  it  may  be  said  without  paradox, 
and  with  reference  to  sincerity  of  man- 
ner in  the  expression  of  the  nature  — 
whether  the  nature  be  rich  or  meagre, 
and  in  Browning's  case  it  was  rich  — 
that  Browning  was  as  simple  as  his  own 
Pompilia. 

When  therefore  Mr.  Bottinius  Ches- 
terton praises  Browning  for  a  willfully 
microscopic  exaggeration  of  the  petty  in 
life,  in  order  to  be  modern  and  gain  gro- 
tesque effects;  or  when  Mr.  de  Arch- 
angelis Santayana  censures  him  for 
transgressing  with  his  emotionalized 
barbarism  the  artistic  geometry  and  as- 
cetic control  of  literary-  laws  supersti- 
tiously  supposed  to  be  as  fixed  as  civic 
laws,  then,  readers  who  know  Browning 
for  what  he  is,  must  refuse  either  to  like 
him  or  dislike  him,  to  praise  him  or  to 
condemn  him  for  what  he  is  not. 

That  which  gives  his  presentation  of 
life  its  fire  and  conviction  is  the  intense 
vividness  of  its  reverent  embrace  of  both 
the  physical  and  the  spiritual  sides  of 
life   as   one    flesh    together   aspiring   con- 


(132) 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


i33 


tinually.  That  which  gives  his  accom- 
plished work  its  deep  and  staying  force 
is  what  makes  a  personality  eminent  and 
impressive  —  its  singleness  of  truth  to 
his  own  genius. 


In  his  '  Parsifal :  An  English  Text 
for  the  Score,'  George  Turner  Phelps 
has  done  a  valuable  piece  of  work.  He 
disclaims  the  intention  of  making  a 
translation  couched  in  literary  language, 
but  the  result  is  one  in  which  the  strength 
and  atmosphere  of  the  original  is  pre- 
served as  it  could  never  be  in  a  smoothly 
polished  translation,  especially  when  it 
has  to  be  made  to  fit  music.  The  double 
process  of  making  German  verse  into 
English  verse  and  at  the  same  time  pre- 
serving its  metrical  relation  to  the  music 
is  fatally  likely  to  result  in  something 
out  of  which  all  the  original  flavor  has 
been  taken. 

In  his  preface  Mr.  Phelps  writes: 
As  has  been  said,  for  the  eye,  the 
verse  takes  its  form  from  the  emotion 
of  the  text.  So,  too,  for  the  ear,  the 
vocal  declamation  is  based  wholly  upon 
the  same  emotion,  and  in  magnifying 
that  destroys  the  verse.  Nevertheless, 
the  declamation  follows  the  original  text, 
syllable  by  syllable,  and  the  English  syl- 
lables must  follow  the  declamation  in 
exactly  the  same  way.  Otherwise  the 
notation  of  the  declamation  must  be  re- 
written and  we  lose  Wagner.  Now,  the 
order  of  words  in  a  German  sentence  is 
not  the  English  order;  moreover,  English 
equivalents  of  German  words  with  the 
same  number  of  syllables,  only  too  often 
may  have  accents  exactly  reversed.  But 
in  the  English  text,  the  sense  emphasis, 
the  emphatic  words,  even  the  emphatic 
syllables,  must  coincide  with  the  points 
of  the  musical  declamation ;  in  other 
words,  with  the  structure  of  the  German 
sentence.     It    becomes    evident,    at    once, 


that,  although  the  sense  must  be  easily 
intelligible,  and  the  form  must  not  dis- 
tract the  mind  by  uncouthness,  literary 
English  is  at  least  a  doubtful  possibility. 

Again,  the  declamation  itself  is  often 
distorted  musically  to  amplify  its  emotion 
by  intricate  thematic  mosaic  of  orches- 
tration, each  detail  of  which,  in  turn, 
depends  for  its  emotion  upon  the  coin- 
cident German  phrase.  It  often  happens 
that,  where  the  declamation  itself  allows 
a  passage  of  word  construction,  purely 
English,  the  orchestration  depends  abso- 
lutely upon  the  German  phrase  sequence, 
and  the  English  order  must  be  sacrificed 
for  correspondence,  if  the  balance  of 
sense,  declamation,  and  orchestration  is 
to  be  maintained ;  that  is,  if  one  is  to 
know  what  Wagner  meant  by  what  he 
said  at  any  given  point. 

'  For  a  complete  understanding  of 
Wagner's  "  Parsifal  "  as  he  wrote  it,  a 
unit  composed  of  three  coincident  phe- 
nomena, Text,  Declamation,  Orchestra- 
tion, a  unit  whose  two  musical  elements 
depend  absolutely  for  meaning  upon  the 
text,  a  translation  into  literary  English 
is  useless. 

'  No  one  ever  suggests  taking  the 
declamation  apart  from  text  and  orches- 
tration. On  the  other  hand,  the  orches- 
tration has  great  emotional  and  intel- 
lectual interest  in  and  for  itself.  But 
both  these  interests,  changed,  to  be  sure, 
are  enormously  heightened  when  seen, 
not  isolated,  but  in  relation  with  their 
cause.  The  orchestration  suffers  from 
isolation,  as  is  proved  interestingly  by  the 
fact  that  taken  as  a  musical  whole,  it  is 
a  perfect  example  of  dramatic  anti-cli- 
max, while  taken  as  written,  it  increases 
the  irresistible  upward  sweep  to  the  cul- 
mination of  a  marvelously  constructed 
psychologic  drama.' 

Along  with  the  translation  is  printed 
on  the  opposite  page  the  German  text. 
Additional  value  is  given  to  this  text  by 


J  34 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


the  indication  of  the  orchestral  interludes 
and  by  diagrams  Bhowing  the  manner  in 
which    the   \\oi(U    an-   broken    up    in    the 

choruses. 

We  should  like  to  see  this  excellent 
and  virile  text  adopted  in  the  English 
performances  of  the  drama.  By  its  use 
we  believe  the  weakening  of  the  dignity 
which  is  apparent  when  the  English  pro- 
duction is  compared  with  the  German 
could  be  largely  if  not  completely 
avoided. 


The  sort  of  criticism  Miss  O'Neil 
has  received  in  New  York  upon  her  open- 
ing of  her  season  there  in  Sudermann's 
'  Magda '  is  a  glaring  revelation  of  her 
unusual  power  and  independence  as  an 
?c  tress. 

Not  the  enthusiasm  she  so  profoundly 
stirred  in  Boston  last  spring  is  so  notable 
a  sign  of  her  importance  as  a  dramatic 
force  to  be  reckoned  with,  as  the  con- 
certed abuse  she  has  aroused  in  New 
York  this  winter.  It  has  been  both  so 
virulent,  personally,  and  so  shallow,  crit- 
ically, that  persons  of  insight  in  artistic 
matters  or  of  wisdom  in  worldly  affairs 
as  they  are  manipulated  behind  the 
scenes,  cannot  help  but  see  that  it  is  not 
genuine  or  fair  criticism  at  all,  but  the 
rotten  outgrowth  of  a  condition  of  things 
the  American  public  is  feared  to  be  on 
the  eve  of  overthrowing  utterly. 

Whence  can  such  virulence  proceed 
but  from  the  fierce  jealousy  of  competing 
managers  combining  to  run  down  Miss 
O'Neil  stock  in  order  to  get  hold  of  her 
and  control  her  themselves? 

Whence  can  such  critical  ineptitude 
come  but  from  a  pitiful  ignorance  of 
the  drama  as  a  living  force  in  modern 
literary  art,  or  else  from  a  slavery  to 
stage  commercialism  and  literary  em- 
ployeeism  too  long  and  degrading  to  per- 
mit of  high-minded  or  disinterested   ex- 


pression ' 

What  can  such  concentrated  attack 
mean  but  a  recognition  from  Miss 
O'Neil's  enemies,  more  unquestionable 
than  any  she  has  yet  received  from  her 
friends,  that  her  dramatic  power  is  dan- 
gerous? 

Her  genius  is  neither  flawless,  equal  to 
all  its  tasks,  nor  fully  developed,  but  so 
beyond  the  common  in  fire  and  force  that 
it  threatens  the  eminence  of  more  usual 
talents  and  personalities.  Moreover,  it 
promises  a  wide  choice  of  plays  to  a 
drama-loving  public  now  kept  on  a  star- 
vation allowance. 

Hence  this  New  York  stampede. 

*     *     * 

In  the  course  of  clearing  out  some 
old  papers  recently  we  came  upon  two  in- 
teresting dramatic  records.  One  was  a 
personal  letter  from  Lady  Martin, 
known,  as  the  actress  Helena  Faucit,  for 
her  graceful  impersonation  of  Shake- 
speare's heroines.  She  was  also  the  first 
Lady  Carlisle  in  the  first  production  of 
'  Strafford  '  in  London,  March,  1837, 
the  first  Mildred  in  '  The  Blot  in  the 
Scutcheon  '  in  London,  in  February, 
1843,  and  the  first  Colombe  in  '  Col- 
ombe's  Birthday '  in  London,  in  April, 
1853.  Her  letter  expresses  her  feeling 
towards  her  Shakespearian  character^ 
and  how  she  had  let  them  grow  with  her 
growth  into  more  conscious  expression: 
'  3 1  Onslow  Square,  S.  W. 

'July  11,  1888. 
'  I  was  so  very  young  when  I 
first    acted    in    Shakespeare    that    I    was 
wholly   unfit   to   form   any   definite   con- 
ception of  his  characters. 

'  I  could  only  give  them  my  whole 
heart,  and  in  time  my  mind  expanded  and 
enabled  me  to  better  understand  and  ap- 
preciate their  greatness. 

'  My  great  desire  was  to  leave  my 
mind   open   to  fresh   impressions  so   that 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


i35 


if  my  general  idea  of  a  character  remained 
the  same,  I  saw  fresh  meanings  in  passages 
during  the  execution  which  had  escaped 
me  in  study.  My  wish  was  to  take  up 
each  character  as  though  I  had  never 
acted  it  before,  keeping  the  study  and 
preparation  entirely  in  the  background. 

'  I  have  been  told  that  I  varied  in 
certain  scenes,  at  times,  considerably  and 
sometimes  bringing  out  one  scene  more 
prominently  than  another.  I  did  not  do 
this  intentionally,  but  from  the  accident 
of  the  moment  and  perhaps  from  the 
actor  by  my  side  being  more  or  less  im- 
passioned, or  the  reverse. 

'  I  did  not  make  my  study  the  less 
earnest,  but  made  it  the  rock  upon  which 
my  ideal  rested  and  from  which  funda- 
mentally I  never  departed.  .  .  . 
Real  to  me  were  all  the  women  I  had 
to  represent.  ...  I  tried  through 
intense  sympathy  with  them  to  raise  my 
nature  up  to  theirs. 

'  I  dislike  thus  to  write  about  myself 
It  goes  quite  against  me  to  do  so.  But 
your  kind  letter  has  unwillingly  drawn 
so  much  from  me. 

'  Believe  me,  with  kind  compliments 
'  Very  truly  yours, 
'  HELENA  FAUCIT  MARTIN.' 


The  second  dramatic  record  unearthed 
consists  of  some  notes  by  Mrs.  Lander, 
originally  made  by  her  for  the  Boston 
Browning  Society,  in  regard  to  her  first 
production  in  this  country  of  '  Colombe's 
Birthday.' 

'  Friday,  Feb.  16,  1854.  First  repre- 
sentation in  America  of  a  play  of  Robert 
Browning's  —  "  Colombe's  Birthday  " 
for  a  benefit  at  the  Howard  Athenaeum, 
Boston,  Manager  Mr.  H.  Willard. 

'Friday,  March  31.  Second  per- 
formance also  for  a  benefit,  at  the  old 
Chestnut  Street  Theater,  Philadelphia. 
Manager   a   Mr.    Quinlin.     Acting   and 


Stage  Manager  Mr.  John  Gilbert.  The 
caste  included  James  H.  Taylor,  Mes- 
sieurs Mason  and  Gile,  Dawson  and  Mr. 
John  Gilbert. 

'  The  incentive  for  the  presentation  of 
"Colombe's  Birthday"  seems  to  have  been 
novelty  with  me  rather  than  an  enthu- 
siasm for  Browning.  Yet  this  may  be 
an  injustice  to  my  youthful  high  dra- 
matic aspirations.  The  fact  remains 
that  from  1850  I  had  played  such  fre- 
quent and  prolonged  engagements  in  Bos- 
ton that  I  had  fairly  worn  out  my 
repertoire  of  tragedies,  tragical  dramas, 
historical  tragedies,  comedies,  tragical 
comedies,  and  farcical  comedies.  Brown- 
ing had  been  played  in  London.  Why 
not  in  Boston?  Paris  provided  a  be- 
coming ducal  crown  and  an  exquisite  cos- 
tume of  white  silk  adorned  with  filmy 
lace,  embroidered  in  flowers  of  natural 
tints.  I  experienced  no  difficulties  in 
committing  the  Poet's  verse,  in  a  con- 
densed version,  omitting  repetitions  and 
delightful  meanderings.  Above  all  Col- 
ombe  suited  me.  I  reveled  in  her 
thought-broken  sentences. 

'  But  the  stage  manager,  on  receiving 
the  book  to  distribute  the  characters,  es- 
sayed to  read  it,  fell  asleep  and  returned 
it  to  me  as  "impossible!  for  one  night. 
Such  tortuous  and  torturing  numbers  had 
never  been  presented  to  any  actor's  study 
on  short  notice." 

'  I  urged  that  I  had  nothing  else  to 
give  on  my  benefit  night!  Mr.  McFar- 
land  had  an  exceptional  gift  for  rapid 
memorizing,  and  though  with  the  actor's 
prejudice  against  undertaking  so  long  a 
part  as  Valence,  for  one  night,  without 
likelihood  of  ever  playing  the  second  — 
yet  to  oblige,  etc.,  etc. 

'  It  happened  that  the  "  leading  juve- 
nile," Mr.  J.  H.  Warwick,  was  a  reading 
man  and  an  ardent  admirer  of  Browning. 
He  came  to  the  rescue  and  despite  the  — 
as  he  expressed  it  —  the  "twist  of  Ian- 


136 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


guage  that  was  appalling,"  grappled  with 
Prince  Berthold,  and  to  the  amazement 
oi  every  one,  appeared  at  the  first  re- 
hearsal (the  morning  after  the  part  had 
been  delivered  to  him)  with  the  MS.  in 
his  pocket,  and   "  letter  perfect '"  in   the 

words.  Mr.  Warwick  also  helped  the 
others  in  rhythming  the  verse,  and  so  the 
presentation  to  the  audience  was  smooth, 
even,  ami  without  need  of  prompter. 
Mr.  Conway's  letter  gives  a  too  flatter- 
ing account  of  our  performance  and  the 
effect  of  the  play.     He  wrote: 

"  I  remember  well  to  have  seen  a  vast 
miscellaneous  crowd  in  an  American 
theater  hanging  on  every  word  down  to 
the  splendid  climax  when,  in  obedience 
to  the  Duchess's  direction  to  Valence 
how  he  should  reveal  his  love  to  the  lady 
she  so  little  suspects  herself  to  be  her- 
self, he  kneels  —  every  heart  evidently 
feeling  each  word  as  an  electric  touch, 
and  all  giving  vent  at  last  to  their  emo- 
tion in  round  after  round  of  hearty  ap- 
plause." 

'  On  its  second  representation  at  the 
Chestnut  Street  Theater  the  difficulties 
were  repeated.  Mr.  James  H.  Taylor 
writes  me  that  he  remembers  playing 
Valence : 

On  my  first  entrance,  being  dressed 
in  a  plain  but  shabby  dress.  Can  recall 
nothing  else.  I  have  never  kept  any 
play  bills,  newspaper  notices,  nor  adver- 
tisements in  my  whole  career.  A  man 
named  Dawson,  an  eccentric  light  come- 
dian, most  probably  played  Guibert. 
Mr.  John  Gilbert  was  also  in  the  com- 
pany and  he,  I  think,  can  give  you  the 
information  you  desire." 

'  Mr.  Gilbert  remembers  that  he 
"  played  something  in  it,  but  could  not 
understand  what  it  all  meant." 

'  I  believe  he  played  Melchior,  Prince 
Berthold's  friend.  The  cast  also  in- 
cluded a  Mr.  Mason,  Giucelme,  and 
Mr.   (now  General)   Gile,  the  Prince. 


Mr.   Leander  Lippincott  was  pr< 

and    ot     the    aildiem  C    'inly    recalls    | 

"  I  sat  in  the  Pit  with  General  James 
Burney,  who  was  eating  peanuts  [in  the 

entr  actes  it  is  to  be  hoped]  and  who 
asked  me  to  write  a  notice  of  the  per- 
formance. I  did  so  and  it  appeared  in 
the  Daily  Register,  of  which  he  was  the 
editor." 

'  In  both  cities,  Boston  and  Philadel- 
phia, the  papers  failed  to  notice  the  play, 
and  the  excuse  given  by  The  Boston 
Transcript,  on  inquiry,  Mr.  Lippincott, 
in  a  letter,  supposed  might  account  in 
both  cities  (partially)  for  the  neglect  of 
noticing  a  notable  event:  "This  occa- 
sion being  a  benefit,  no  notice  appeared 
in   the   Transcript." 

'  This  was  and  is  a  journalistic  rule  in 
England,  with  many  exceptions.  I  had 
forgotten  it  used  to  be  a  rule  here  with- 
out exception,  even  for  Robert  Brown- 
ing.' 


We  have  not  intentionally  been  inhos- 
pitable in  Poet-Lore  to  news  of  the  little 
flurry  of  excitement  created  last  spring 
by  the  claim  that  Browning  had  written 
a  poem,  hitherto  overlooked,  called  'A 
Miniature.'  We  did  not  regard  the 
claim  as  established  on  external  grounds 
when  it  was  made ;  nor  did  we  feel  con- 
vinced that  the  poem  was  Browning's  on 
internal  grounds.  We  regarded  it  as 
merely  a  graceful  trifle,  whatever  it 
might  turn  out  to  be  in  the  light  of  fur- 
ther facts.  Mrs.  Emma  Endicott  Ma- 
rean  at  once  doubted  its  authenticity, 
and  so  expressed  herself,  despite  its  easy 
acceptance  by  various  readers  of  Brown- 
ing. 

Shortly  after,  in  The  Westminster 
Gazette,  Dr.  Furnivall  announced  that 
the  editor  of  the  now  extinct  magazine, 
The  Sibyl,  in  which  the  poem  in  question 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


137 


appeared,  declared  it  to  be  the  work  of  a 
Mrs.  Watts- Jones. 

Here  follows  the  poem  which  took 
in  so  many  Browningites.  Prefixed  ap- 
pear also  Dr.  Furnivall's  confident 
words  about  it.  They  are  of  special 
value,  now  that  the  truth  is  known,  to 
point  the  warning  against  the  assumption 
of  anyone  whatsoever  to  adjudge  author- 
ship of  unknown  work,  save  as  a  matter 
of  private  opinion.  Such  adjudgment 
has,  however,  been  made,  with  authority 
to  an  unscientific  and  vicious  extent  in 
England,  and,  imitatively,  in  this  coun- 
try, in  regard  especially  to  the  author- 
ship of  Shakespeare  and  other  Eliza- 
bethan dramatists.  The  'Album  of  a 
Virginian  Lady '  is  an  amusing  element 
in  the  myth  growing  up  so  fast  about 
this  modern  poem: 


A   MINIATURE. 


•A 


GENUINE  Poem  of 
Robert  Browning's,  al- 
most unknown,  is  here 
reprinted  from  "  The 
Sibyl,  Edited  by  Mem- 
bers of  Rugby  School," 
No.  1 6,  April  i,  1893,  pages  18-20, 
where  a  prefatory  notice  states  that 
the  poem  "  is  believed  to  have  been 
written  by  Mr.  Browning  in  the  al- 
bum of  a  Virginian  lady.  By  this  lady 
it  wras  bequeathed  to  the  present  owner 
(now  herself  absent  from  England),  to 
whose  kindness  we  are  indebted  for  the 
permission  to  publish  it."  That  this 
poem  is  Browning's  own,  no  knower  of 
his  work  will  doubt.  Mr.  W.  F.  Re- 
vell,  whose  attention  was  called  to  it  by 
a  friend,  has  just  told  me  of  it,  so  I 
lookt  it  up  in  the  British  Museum. — 
F.  J.  Furnivall,  16  Feb.,  1904.' 


I. 

'  "  One  dull  day  in  the  bright  Touraine 
In      a      high-turreted,      steeple-roofed 
town, 

Sheltering  out  of  a  skurry  of  rain, 

Down  a  dim  back  street,  dusky  brown, 

II. 

'  "  I  stepped  into  a  bric-a-brac  shop, 
Hardly  room  to  open  the  door, 

Heaped  with  rubbish  right  up  to  the  top, 
Strewn  with  lumber  all  over  the  floor. 

III. 

1  "Aubesson  tapestries  all  in  holes, 
Cabinets  guiltless  of  locks  or  drawers, 

Faded  banners  and  tattered  stoles, 
Cushionless  tabourets,  Louis  quatorze. 

IV. 

'  'Arquebuses  and  pistols   triggerless, 
Clumsy  teapots  without  a  handle, 

Figured   portieres,   frayed  and   figureless, 
Sticks    that    would    never    again    hold 
candle. 

V. 

'  "  Soundless  spinets  on  legs  precarious, 
Long  slim  rapiers  long  since  rusty, 

Stringless  mandolines,  violas  various, 
All  most  musty,  dusty,  and  fusty. 

VI. 

'  "And  down  in  a  cupboard,   in  mildew 
and  rust  deep, 

Like  a  rose  in  a  city  sewer, 
Like  a  butterfly  on  a  dust-heap, 

Lay,  unnoticed,  a  miniature. 

VII. 

'  "Face  most  delicate,  brave  and  fair, 
Glowing  colour  and  perfect  line; 

Sun-tinged  circles  of  dark-brown  hair. 
Costume  the  fashion  of  '89.     [1789.] 


133 


iiii    \M)  li/i  j i:rs 


\  III. 

"  Blois     or     Beaugcncy,     Amboise     or 

Tours  — 
Which  fair  town  of  that  joyous  land 
Gave  her  the  beauty  can  still  endure 
Fresh    as    it    came    from    the    artist's 

hand  ? 

IX. 

'  "  Whose   was   the   portrait?     At  sunny 
Chaumont 

Turning  over  some  casts  by  Nello, 
We  discover  the  face  we  want, 

Face  like  our  portrait,  just  its  fellow. 

X. 

"  Turn  of  the  head  and  bust  the  same, 
Same  fine  features  and  radiant  air, 
And  beneath  it  a  sweet  girl-name, 
"  Suzanne  Jarente  de  la  Regniere." 

XI. 

When     the     Terror,     with     hungry 

throat, 
Ravished  the  homes  of  the  wide  Tou- 
raine, 
These  medallions  were  flung  in  the  moat ; 
Terror  past,  they  emerged  again, 

XII. 

"  None  the  wrorse  for  their  cold  eclipse ; 
But  the  originals,  where  were  they? 
Human  bosoms  and  eyes  and  lips 

Cannot  compete  with  these  things  of 
clay ! 

XIII. 

"  Colder  and  deathlier  roll  the  waves 
Where    the    sea    swallows    the    dark 
Loire  floods; 
Hungrier  raven  the  yawning  graves 
Where    tiger     Paris     is    crazed    with 
blood ! 


XIV. 

Forth     from     the     fill     Concicrgcric 

tow 
(  )Yr    slights    and    Bound*    that    profane 
the  air, 
Did    one    name     float    like    a    breath    of 
flowers  — 
'Suzanne  Jarente  de  la  Regniere?' 

XV. 

Were    those   steps    the    last   path    she 

trod? 
Did  she,  with  gracious  and  even  mien, 
Hand  her  sweet  soul  right  up  to  God, 
Dauntless  under  the  black  guillotine? 

XVI. 

'"Ah,  my  beauty!     Or  did  she  rather, 
Lightening   a   few   years   our    English 
air, 
Cook   and    keep   house   for   an   emigrant 
father, 
While  he  taught  dancing  in  Leicester 
Square? 

XVII. 

"  Then  hie  home  where  the  wide  Loire 
lies 
Warm  in  the  light  of  its  fleurs-de-lys? 
All  I  know  is,  her  brave,  sweet  eyes 
Brighten  a  bit  of  this  world  for  me."  : 


Victor  Hugo's  friend,  Mr.  Paul 
Stapper,  has  been  contributing  to  the 
Revue  de  Paris,  for  October,  the  conver- 
sations he  had  with  the  poet  at  Guernsey. 
Immortality  was  one  of  the  subjects  dis- 
cussed, and  this  (from  the  translation  in 
the  Literary  Digest)  is  what  Hugo  said : 

'  I  know  that  I  am  immortal.  If 
others  have  not  the  conviction  of  their 
immortality,  I  am  sorry  for  them,  but  it 
is  their  own  affair.  I  do  not  dispute 
what  they  think.  Doubtless  they  are 
right   in   what   concerns   them   most   and 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


i39 


their  instinct  does  not  deceive  them.  I 
said  one  day  to  a  self-declared  materialist 
whom  you  know  —  our  poor  friend  Kes- 
ler  now  dead,  alas!  and  consigned  to 
mother  earth  a  little  after  your  departure 
from  Guernsey  —  and  I  illustrated  my 
idea  by  a  comparison  which  made  so 
strong  an  impression  upon  him  that  I 
noticed  it  and  afterward  wrote  down  my 
words.  You  may  read  them  later  in  a 
book  to  be  entitled  Explanations.  Kes-  * 
ler  then  said  to  me:  "I  am  sure,  ab- 
solutely sure,  that  I  shall  die  utterly. 
Nothing  of  me  shall  survive.  That 
which  you  call  my  soul  shall  die  with 
my  body.  I  have  the  intimate  certainty 
of  this,  the  indestructible  conviction.  I 
know  it;  I  feel  it;  it  is  for  me  a  matter 
that  has  been  proved.  To  your  convic- 
tion, which  you  think  clear  and  pro- 
found, I  oppose  another  which  is  not 
less  so.  Which  of  us  is  right?  " 
'  "  We  are  both  right,"  replied  I. 


"'How  is  that?" 

'  "  Look  you.  A  poet,  a  great  genius 
(call  him  Dante,  iEschylus,  Shake- 
speare), writes  two  verses.  During  his 
absence  the  two  verses  begin  a  conversa- 
tion: "  How  happy  we  are,"  says  one. 
"  Behold,  we  are  immortal !  What 
glory,  my  friend !  and  what  duration ! 
Eternity  is  ours!  As  long  as  the  human 
mind  shall  subsist,  as  long  as  there  shall 
be  a  human  language,  we  shall  live  in 
the  memory  of  men!" 

'  "  Bah,"  says  the  other,  "  do  you  be- 
lieve that?  What  a  singular  thought.  I 
have  no  such  idea  at  all.  I  am  living 
now,  true;  but  it  is  strange,  it  seems  to 
me  —  I  feel  that  in  an  instant  I  shall  be 
dead."  Thereupon  the  poet  re-enters  his 
study,  approaches  the  table  where  he  has 
written  the  two  verses,  reads  them  over 
again,  takes  up  his  pen,  scratches  one  out 
and  preserves  the  other.  .  .  .  And 
you  see  how  both  were  right.' 


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(140) 


THE  SEASON'S  BEST  BOOKS 


141 


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142 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


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the  second  as  to  one  of  his  managers  — 
the  old   man  having  come   gradually  to 


regard  his  son  as  more  and  more  of  an 
equal.  There  is  here,  also,  a  good  deal 
about  Pierrepont's  domestic  problems, 
and  consequently  it  appeals  alike  to  men 
and  to  women.  The  book  is  essentially 
American,  characteristic  both  in  its  hu- 
mor and  its  philosophy.  Doubleday, 
Page  &  Co.     $1.50.) 

Traffics  and  Discoveries  is  Mr.  Kip- 
ling's first  volume  of  short  stories  since 
The  Day's  Work.  It  contains  one  long 
tale,  The  Army  of  a  Dream,  not  hitherto 
published,  and  ten  other  stories  and 
eleven  poems.  Like  all  Mr.  Kipling- 
work  it  is  impossible  to  deny  a  certain 
charm,  but  after  Steam  Tactics,  "Wire- 
less," Mrs.  Bathurst  and  "They "  it  is 
impossible  not  to  regret  the  days  of  Bar- 
rack Room  Ballads  and  Plain  Tales  from 
the  Hills.  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
$1.50). 

Painted  Shadoius,  by  Richard  Le  Gal- 
lienne,  displays  in  a  remarkable  degree 
this  more  or  less  effeminate  young  Eng- 
lishman's rather  morbid  imagination, 
charming  style  and  the  high  quality 
of  his  verse.  The  Youth  of  Lady  Con- 
stantia,  The  Wandering  Home.  The 
Shadozv  of  the  Rose,  Beauty's  Portman- 
teau, and  Old  Silver  are  certainly  equal 
to  his  best  work,  and  the  story  entitled 
Poet  Take  Thy  Lute,  will  appeal  espe- 
cially to  those  who  love  what  is  most 
delicate  in  literature.  (Little,  Brown 
&  Co.     $1.50.) 

Evelyn  Byrd,  by  George  Cary  Eggle- 
ston,  is  the  third  of  Mr.  Eggleston's  ro- 
mances of  the  Civil  War.  The  story 
is  that  of  a  high-minded  and  courageous 
Southerner,  who  joins  the  army  of  Lee 
at  the  time  when  the  Confederacy  is 
making  its  last  desperate  stand.  Doro- 
thy South  and  other  characters  endeared 
to  the  readers  of  Mr.  Eggleston's  pre- 
vious novels  appear  again  as  the  friends 
and  advisers  of  Kilgariff,  who  is  himself 
the  embodiment  of  Southern  daring  and 


THE  SEASON'S  BEST  BOOKS 


143 


chivalry.  The  heroic  fortitude  and  de- 
votion of  the  people  of  the  South  in  the 
last  stage  of  the  war  are  strikingly 
shown.  (Lothrop  Publishing  Co. 
$1.50.) 

The  Loves  of  Edwy,  by  Rose  Cecil 
O'Neill,  the  well-known  illustrator,  is 
unique  among  love  stories,  and  a  love 
story  it  is  par  excellence,  following  with 
perfect  sureness  of  touch  the  romance  of 
three  interlacing  lives  from  its  beginning 
in  childish  attachment  to  the  flowering 
forth  of  a  grand  passion.  Aside  from 
the  story,  the  sixty  or  more  beautiful  il- 
lustrations make  the  book  a  choice  pos- 
session. (Lothrop  Publishing  Co. 
$1.50.) 

Captains  of  the  World,  by  Gertrude 
Overton,  is  a  distinct  disappointment. 
The  book  has  such  a  vigorous  title,  and 
the  subject  of  modern  industries  with 
which  it  deals  is  so  truly  great  that  the 
work  itself  seems  painfully  weak  and 
strangely  unconvincing.  (The  Macmil- 
lan  Co.     $1.50.) 

Whosoever  Shall  Offend,  F.  Marion 
Crawford's  latest  piece  of  work,  gives 
renewed  evidence  of  his  really  wonder- 
ful ability  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  Mr 
Crawford  not  only  always  has  a  good 
story  to  tell,  but  he  knows  how  to  tell 
it.  The  combination  is  by  no  means 
common.  Whosoever  Shall  Offend  has 
its  scene  laid  in  Italy  of  today.  (The 
Macmillan   Co.     $1.50.) 

The  President,  a  novel  by  Alfred 
Henry  Lewis. 

A  story  full  of  dramatic  incidents,  ab- 
sorbing in  its  interest,  extraordinary  in 
its  inner  glimpses  of  the  great  game  of 
national  politics.  The  President  is  first 
of  all  a  novel  picturing  striking  phases 
of  life  in  Washington,  Wall  Street,  and 
elsewhere,  revealing  intrigues  and  full  of 
dramatic  happenings.  A  most  interest- 
ing love  story  runs  throughout.  But 
the  author  has  drawn  upon  his  extraor- 


dinary knowledge  of  the  inside  of  politi- 
cal life,  and  he  tells  a  remarkable  story. 
The  President  is  a  book  that  will  be 
heard  from  everywhere.  (A.  S.  Barnes 
&  Co.     $1.50.) 

The   Divine    Fire,    by    May    Sinclair. 

This  is  a  story  of  a  cockney,  the 
son  and  clerk  of  a  London  bookseller, 
who  became  a  real  poet.  It  tells  of  his 
'life  and  loves,  and  of  many  sorts  of  peo- 
ple whom  he  met.  The  scenes  are 
chiefly  in  London  and  in  English  country 
houses.  There  are  many  interesting 
figures  besides  that  of  the  poet.  It  is 
believed  that  this  elaborate  novel,  of 
which,  however,  the  reader  scarcely  rec- 
ognizes the  length,  will  be  highly  com- 
mended for  its  sincerity  and  humor,  and 
above  all  for  its  strong  character  draw- 
ing.     (Henry  Holt  &  Co.     $1.50.) 

The  History  of  Tom  Jones,  a  Found- 
ling, by  Henry  Fielding,  Esq.  Abridg- 
ment by  Burton  E.  Stevenson. 

An  abridgment  after  all  is  only  the 
assumption  by  an  editor  of  a  task  which 
most  readers  try  to  accomplish,  more  or 
less  successfully,  for  themselves.  Very 
few  actually  read  every  line  of  a  long 
novel.  .  .  .  Tom  Jones  ranks  with  the 
best  of  these  [the  classic  '  three-deck- 
ers'],  amusing,  absorbing,  vibrant  with 
life;  but,  alas!  covering  nearly  fifteen 
hundred  closely-printed  pages  —  every 
one  of  them,  perhaps,  a  delight  to  the 
connoisseur,  but  appalling  in  their  very 
multiplicity  to  the  average  reader.  .  .  . 
This  abridgment  has  followed  in  the 
main  the  recognized  lines  of  criticism. 
The  principal  characters,  and  even  most 
of  the  minor  ones,  remain  full  length,  as 
they  were  drawn,  and  no  detail  has  been 
consciously  omitted  which  assists  the 
action  of  the  story.  (Henry  Holt  & 
Co.     $1.50.) 

The  Boss  and  How  He  Came  to  Rule 
New  York,  by  Alfred  Henry  Lewis,  is 
really  a  remarkable  book.     It  is  almost 


144 


I  III.    SI    \SON'S    HI  SI     HOOKS 


impossible  to  consider  the  work  as  fiction 

at  all  ;  it  seems  as  it  it  u  ere  a  bit  of 
real  lite  set  naked  before  tin-  world.  It 
is  certainly  worthy  of  serious  considera- 
tion as  a  primer  of  politics  and  the  con- 
trol of  great  cities.  (A.  S.  Barnes  & 
Co.     $1.50.) 

Baccaratj  by  Mrs.  Frankau,  is  by  all 
odds  the  most  dramatic  and  intense  story 
which  she  has  yet  written.  It  has  no 
less  depth  and  feeling  than  Pigs  in 
Clover  —  now  in  its  sixth  edition  —  and 
as  a  story  of  passion  and  its  consequences 
should  go  to  the  very  heart  of  things. 
It  deals  with  a  young  Frenchwoman  — 
a  wife  —  who  is  left  at  a  Continental 
watering  place  by  her  husband,  and 
while  there  is  brought  by  the  gambling 
table  to  a  critical  pass.  It  is  at  this 
stage  that  the  complications  occur  which 
exhibit  Mrs.  Frankau's  profound  knowl- 
edge of  life  as  does  probably  no  other 
chapter  she  has  yet  written.  The  vol- 
ume is  effectively  illustrated  in  color. 
(J.  B.  Lippincott  k  Co.     $1.50.) 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  True  Henry  Clay,  by  Joseph  M. 
Rogers,  is  this  year's  addition  to  the  True 
Biographies.  Mr.  Rogers  has  made  a 
lifetime  study  of  Clay  and  his  environ- 
ment, and  he  writes  from  the  knowledge 
obtained  through  a  long  and  close  family 
friendship,  with  the  great  American,  as 
well  as  from  a  thorough  acquaintance 
with  the  literature  on  the  subject.  He 
had  access  to  all  the  private  Clay  papers 
now  in  possession  of  the  Clay  family, 
who  gave  to  him  as  well  every  assistance 
in  the  preparation  of  his  work.  His 
book  is  notable  for  its  wealth  of  anecdote 
and  for  its  portrayal  of  Clay  as  a  man. 
The  volume  contains  twenty-four  illus- 
trations, most  of  them  from  photographs 


made  especially   for   the  work.     (J.   B. 
Lippincotl  &  Co.     ^-i.<*>  net.) 

SOME  RECENT  Ml' 

The  Place  of  My  Desire  and  Other 
Poems.  By  Edith  Colby  Banfield. 
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Lullaby  Castle  and  Other  Poems.  By 
Blanche  Mary  Charming.  Little, 
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Pipes  of  Pan.  By  Bliss  Carman.  IV 
Songs  From  a  Northern  Garden.  L.  C. 
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Poems.  By  Eugene  Barry.  L.  C. 
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The  Playmate  Hours.  By  Mary 
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Elfin  Songs  of  Sunland.  By  Charles 
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Poems  and  Verses.  By  Mary  Mapes 
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Lyrics  of  Joy.  By  Frank  Dempster 
Sherman.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
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Underneath  the  Bough.  A  book  of 
verses.  By  George  Allan  England.  The 
Grafton   Press.     $1.00  net. 

Mr.  England  is  one  of  the  younger  yet 
more  promising  men  in  the  field  of  con- 
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Mine  and  Thine.  By  Florence  Earle 
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